Countermeasures
by L Zaza
Summary: In a race against time, the Covert Operations Ship, Endeavour, reaches Earth. Sixth story in the Empyrean series. Complete!
1. Prologue

Countermeasures

By Lisa Zaza

Forty-five years to the day that her father, Commander Mark Dayton, of the U.S. Space Shuttle _Endeavour_, had disappeared in an explosion that had destroyed the International Space Station and had launched the beginning of the end for NASA, Jess Dayton stood in the Mission Control Centre of the Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency, waiting for the _Unity_ to come home.

She could feel that irritating little tick in her eyelid again, as she glanced up at the digital readout on the wall. Although anyone else would be oblivious to it, she was acutely aware of the nervous affectation. She pressed on the pulse point, willing it to go away, as her heart pounded against her chest, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

One of the three new _Guardian_ Vehicle Designations, which had recently replaced the _Orions_, the _Unity_was one of two shuttles that WASA had launched almost three months earlier to coordinate a research and retrieval mission for the mysterious ship that had crashed on the Moon, its origin technically unknown, although, their initial suspicions had certainly been confirmed. It was unquestionably Cylon. Everything that had been predicted by the Guardians_—_representatives for a race of incredibly advanced extraterrestrial Beings, watching over the universe, and ensuring that humanity would survive—had been confirmed. The alien threat was real. It chilled her heart, at the same time as it affirmed everything she'd been working towards for the last twenty years. Validation for a group of WASA scientists and astronauts had come in the form of a deadly threat. Talk about mixed emotions . . .

Jess frowned, rubbing the back of her neck ritualistically, as she considered that since she had taken over as Director of WASA, after Glen Moore had tragically died the year before—an "accident" which she still had her suspicions about—that too much of her time had been spent this way. Waiting. Oh, she would have traded her younger sister to have been up there at the Armstrong Lunar Outpost all this time, instead of dealing with the various government and military officials that had constantly harassed her, threatening her with everything from funding interdiction to supply interruptions, as she oversaw the project from WASA's Guiana Space Centre. Once her people were back safely on Earth, she could start concentrating on the other mind-boggler she had recently been faced with.

As it happened, at the same time as WASA had tracked the Cylon ship to the moon, their stealth recon satellites had picked up a massive burst of radio energy out near the orbit of Sedna, and a sudden uptick in chatter between the various intelligence agencies. Due to a massive deluge of signals directed towards their satellites, the radar traces weren't good enough to be a hundred percent certain, but whatever they had brought back had been about the right size and mass to be a shuttle. Every piece of data they had put together since then led WASA to believe that an Orbiter shuttle had "limped" into Edwards Air Force Base with an F-22 escort on that day. Her pulse quickened at the very thought. Could it really be . . .?

Of course, the government had denied it, covering it up, or burying it as the case may be. Any coverage of the event that hit the internet that day, had disappeared by the next, as if it had never existed to begin with. Mainstream media hadn't touched it, which set off a few warning bells. Still, Jess damn well knew that only _one_Orbiter shuttle had _ever_ been unaccounted for . . . the _Endeavour_.

It had been about the most bizarre, unexpected, and enigmatic event that had occurred in her career. The Guardians sure hadn't prepared her for this. After all, the _Endeavour_had been blown up, while manoeuvring for a docking with the old ISS, back in 2010, her father in command. The resulting explosion, had obliterated the entire station, as well as the shuttle. There had been no survivors, and not even a trace of the _Endeavour_ had been found in the ensuing debris, or so they had been told, and so the history books had recorded. As a child, she barely remembered the world event, but the loss of her father, and the mystery surrounding it, had been her constant companion throughout her formative years. Knowing Mark Dayton, and the kind of man he was, she had lived, breathed, and ached for answers that she could accept, and her yearning had shaped her into the woman she was today.

Dare she hope? Finally, some answers? It was discoveries like this that had first inspired her to follow in her famous, or rather_infamous_ father's footsteps . . . that and the determination that one day she would clear his name, and that of his crew. Now, she was convinced, more than ever, that she'd made the right choice.

"Okay people, I'm going to get your 'go', 'no go'. _Unity_'s thirty minutes out . . ." She half listened as Flight Director Hayashi went through his checks.

Once again, Jess checked the telemetry, searching for any sign of fighters in the area. It had been an ongoing battle of late, and one that at times made her wish she hadn't stepped up to the plate when no one else seemed willing to do so after Moore's death, and probable murder. Despite the fact that most world powers had cut funding to their space programs over forty years ago, claiming that the Islamic World Front—a violent terrorist faction later proven to be associated with al Queda, according to the American National Security Agency, the Israeli Mossad, and the British MI6—had infiltrated both NASA and Roskosmos, the Russian Federal Space Agency, both the US and British governments seemed to believe, rather presumptuously, in her opinion, that WASA should suddenly now be subject to their orders and military dominance.

Fat bloody chance.

No, there was far too much water under the bridge for that now, most of it muddied, or stained red, and WASA had struggled too hard to get where they were, subject to ridicule, threats and even violence over the four decades that had passed. At times it hadn't seemed worth the sacrifices and exhaustive effort they had all put into it, but when they had found out from the Guardians that the rising and prevalent distrust in leadership embodied in the form of endless conspiracy theories—covering everything from 9/11 to child vaccinations—that seemed to be permeating their beloved planet, Earth, was being orchestrated by a supernatural being named "Iblis" which Earth culture could only equate with the Devil, well, it sure as hell changed a gal's perspective.

"Ma'am, we just picked up two F-35's on an intercept coarse with the _Unity_," Lee told her. "ETA, eight minutes . . .mark."

"Lightnings! Damn! I knew they'd pull something like this." Jess banged a fist on the control panel. "Get me Leach! Marshal of the Royal Air Force," she added the title as an afterthought, before turning to Hayashi. "Has Grae spotted them yet from the _Unity_?"

"Affirmative," Hayashi replied. "Go ahead, _Unity_ Commander."

"I've got them, Dayton," said Grae, his image filling one of the huge screens in Mission Control. As usual, Grae looked like he hadn't a care in the world. Or off of it, for that matter. "Nice to give the new sensor suite a work out, by the way. Just like a fighter's. It makes it hard to miss them dogging our tail way out here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean."

"You always were observant, Grae," she told him wryly. "Stand by. Things might get exciting."

"I'm counting on it. It was getting pretty boring up there at the Lunar Outpost." He leaned back in his pilot seat, one arm behind his head, as if he were lounging on a beach. "You know, nothing to do but chat with Cylons and examine their ship. Play some cards."

"Stop rubbing it in," she told him.

"All work and no play, Jess . . ."

"Yeah, yeah," she returned, tuning him out for the moment. "Batalova, get me Sergei Orlov in Kazakhstan. I need to buy some time for the _Unity_."

"They're too far away. Even if we redirect them . . ." Hayashi began.

"I know!" Dayton snapped. "So is Alipao, and the Borneo Tracking Station. But we have to try something! I'm not letting those bastards just take her!"

"Director Dayton," Lee inserted. "Just picked up some old F-22's, coming in across Costa Rica, flat out . . . definitely American."

"Where's Orlov?" she hissed to Batalova, who redoubled her efforts.

"Marshal of the Royal Air Force for you, Director Dayton," Lee inserted.

"Put him on," she ordered. One of the huge plasma screens on the wall snowed, then came to life with the image of a balding, clean-shaven man, in a British military uniform. "Leach, you Smeg-Head, call off your fighters! We have an agreement!" Dayton spat through gritted teeth.

"_Had_ an agreement, Dayton," he actually sounded amused. "You see, Chief of Staff Roach and I discussed the situation again, and decided that considering the _Unity_ is escorting back our first verifiable contact with alien life in the galaxy, that a military escort is in order." His refined British accent grated on her nerves, and the fact that he was colluding with the senior officer of the American Air Force behind her back made her want to pull her hair out.

Or maybe his.

"Leach, if you don't have your fighters turn back now, I will consider this an offensive taken against WASA, and will react accordingly."

"Director Dayton, we all know that WASA's mandate includes 'cooperation and partnership in the exploration and use of outer space for peaceful purposes'," he drawled the words, as though humouring her.

"And sending fighters after our shuttle is _peaceful_? What the hell dictionary are you using? _Oxford,_the pocket edition?"

"I am in control of this situation, Director Dayton," replied Leach, his voice losing its smooth, avuncular tone of a moment before. "You will take no action against us, and you _will_ comply!"

Jess felt like she were back in the first grade, her teacher reading her the riot act. "Care to put that to the test, Leach?" she countered, wishing for the first time that they had actually gone ahead with the initial weapons system designed for the _Guardian_ series. While not as manoeuvrable as either an F-35 or F-22, at least Grae and the crew wouldn't be sitting ducks if they were armed.

"Are you threatening me?" asked Leach, voice a mix of surprise and contempt.

"Nothing gets by you, Leach," she replied, caustically. "Your choice." She turned to Lee, and drew a thumb across her throat. The infuriating image of Leach vanished from the plasma.

"I have Orlov standing by," Batalova reported.

Jess nodded. "Sergei. Jess Dayton. I need your help."

"Underwater rocks, my friend. We are tracking _Unit_y and her pack of wolves. How can I help, Dayton?" The soft undercurrent of his Russian accent was somehow reassuring in the moment. "The new ASAT? It could work to our advantage in more than one way."

"Exactly, Sergei!" she grinned. While official reports had stated that back in 1983 Russia had ended its _Istrebitel Sputnikov_, or literally, "Destroyer of Satellites" program, WASA's Kazakhstan space centre had recently launched a newer generation of a somewhat subtler anti-satellite weaponry for just such an occasion. After all, WASA had known that one day they would have to protect their investment, not to mention defend against possible commandeering or destruction. A good blast from the advanced electromagnetic pulse beam system that covered the Earth could knock out the F-35's radar, not to mention pretty much everything else, giving Unity a little more time. Until the British fighters could get a visual on the Space Shuttle, and lock missiles, Grae and the rest of the _Unity_ crew still had a chance. "Okay, Sergei. Blind those bastards!"

"To do so will make me smile from the bottom of my soul. Sixty seconds. Mark," Sergei confirmed. "Warn _Unity_, Dayton. Tell our Snowbird, we're on track."

"I will, Sergei. Thanks." She switched channels once again, nodding at Flight Director Hayashi. "Grae, we're going to use the ASAT to buy you guys some time. Make the most of it. You'll have about a minute to work some magic while their systems are down. Mark . . . fifty-two seconds."

"Here on the_Unity_, we aim to please, Director," he replied casually. "By the way, you still owe me dinner."

She let out a ragged breath, shaking her head, and trying to keep a tight rein on her emotions. It wouldn't do for the Director of WASA to break down in Mission Control. Inevitably, she was going to lose them. Time wouldn't save the Unity from Leach and Roach . . . the two most aptly named military men on Earth. Right now all the British and American satellites would be tracking WASA's shuttle across the Atlantic, planning to reroute her, probably to the Kennedy Air Force Base, the former Kennedy Space Centre. The irony didn't escape her. The bitterness inside her welled up, until she felt as though she was going to explode. "Damn, Grae . . ."

"Easy, darlin'," he replied, soothingly. "We all knew this would happen. We're going out fighting. We still have a little surprise in reserve for them." He chuckled. "I can hardly wait to see the look on Roach's face . . . It's why I volunteered for this mission. That, and an eternal optimism that I might get a peek at that old Orbiter we tracked on satellite three months ago . . ."

"You and I both," Taylor said from beside him.

Jess sucked in a deep breath, not trusting her voice just now, as she watched it all unfold. The British fighters were getting closer—about four minutes out—when Sergei let them have it with the ASAT. That was when the WASA tracking system went down, every screen awash in electronic snow, which meant the American and British systems were also down. She'd have given a lot just now to see the look on Leach's face, as all their electronics went into the toilet. It was a triumph and a source of frustration at the same time. About now, Grae would be changing coarse, flying by the seat of his pants just like he had in his old Canadian Forces days as an elite member of the Snowbirds, while he pushed the _Unity_ to the limit.

"Coming back online," Flight Director Hayashi announced, as one by one the systems returned to nominal.

_Unity_had gained ground, and it was obvious that the F-35's were still waiting on intel as they continued to move further away from the Space Shuttle. The F-22's corrected coarse marginally faster than their British counterparts, moving to intercept.

"Six minutes to intercept."

"Go, _Unity_!" someone cheered.

It was tortuous just watching. Jess gritted her teeth, counting down the seconds until Grae would use the newly developed Electronic Countermeasures against the fighters. Although a self-admitted realist and cynic, she could hardly believe it had come to this. When it came to maintaining control and domination, the superpowers of the world had their heads so far up their asses that they couldn't see the Cylon discovery for what it truly was. Not just a curiosity, not just "an alien craft", it was evidence of an impending threat against Earth. She couldn't let them get their hands on that Cylon technology, and the proof that could finally sway world opinion to WASA's side. She couldn't let them cover it up again, like they had done at Roswell. It was the only way to get them all working together to save their planet.

"Two minutes."

She smirked, as _Unity_ once again changed coarse, pushing her speed to the atmospheric limit, and this time the American F-22's were left scrambling in uncertainty as their detection systems were deceived by an ECM that these jokers had never seen the like of. Jess couldn't help but smile slightly, as she saw that one of the planes had gone down into the drink. Still, it was only a reprieve. Soon the Air Force fighters' systems would reboot, and the pilots would have a visual, and the "cat and mouse" game would be over.

However, "cat and mouse" wasn't the only game that WASA's director was proficient in.

"Unity to Mission Control. This is our swan song, Jess," Grae reported, his voice still calm. "They're going to be all over us in thirty seconds."

"We'll get you back, Grae," she vowed. "One way or the other, I'm bringing you all home. I promise."

"We're holding you to that . . ." he remarked, then chuckled again. He had a remarkable capacity to see the bright side of things. "Hey, at least we know they won't shoot us down."

"Yeah," she murmured. Right now the crew was a valuable commodity, but later . . .

The next thirty minutes were hard to bear, as she listened to the Americans ordering the _Unity_ to alter coarse, taking them towards the Kennedy Air Force Base, as expected. It was a distasteful, if necessary means to an end, and she knew that Grae saw it in the same light. Hayashi squeezed her shoulder in support, and she swallowed down the massive lump that was rising in her throat, threatening to choke her. The tension and strain in the control room were palpable, everyone was sweating, despite the AC, as they realized that the Unity had finally landed in Florida. The Unity's crew of four would shortly be taken into American custody for interrogation. It wouldn't be long now until Chief of Staff Roach discovered the 'shell game'. She glanced over at Hayashi. It was time.

"Progress report?"

Hayashi nodded. "Baikonur Space Centre standing by."

"Go ahead, Sergei," Jess said, the butterflies in her stomach beginning to perform aerobatics that threatened the endless supply of coffee she had consumed. Had it worked? Was _Unity_'s sacrifice worth it?

"The _Quest_ has landed safely, Dayton. As far as we can tell, Roach and Leach were so occupied with the _Unity_, that they never detected our other ship. The new ECM is worth every ruble, " Orlov replied. "We have the package secured."

"YES!" shouted Dayton, both fists shooting into the air, as the Control Centre exploded into cheers. "Sergei, if you weren't so far away, I'd kiss you."

"I'll take what you Americans call a 'rain check'. In the meantime, you can just send that case of Vodka you owe me from last Christmas."

"Done."


	2. Chapter One: Part One

Chapter One, Part One

-----------------------------

Warmth. Comfort. The faint titter of a child's laughter. And a smell. _The_ smell.

Mark Dayton slowly smiled in satisfaction, as he detected the rich aroma of coffee. It wasn't just any old coffee though, but the intense, utterly decadent, dark roast of Poas, from Costa Rica, with just a whiff of Mayan Black Onyx. He at once thought of the old Turkish proverb:_Coffee should be black as hell; strong as death, and sweet as love._Oh yeah, with Yvonne, it was all three. The very ambrosa of the gods! Sadly, she only brought it out on special occasions, not daring to deplete her stores of the precious beans too quickly. He supposed his last dedicated week at home before he had to immerse himself once more in his work, as he prepared to take the _Endeavour_ up for her final mission, before she was decommissioned, to the International Space Station was a special enough occasion. He had seven more days to spend with his wife and kids, making the most of their time together.

Letting out a deep breath, he stretched out languorously, rolling over and moving to Yvonne's side of the bed. There was something decidedly decadent about taking up an entire king-sized bed, he decided, as he pulled her pillow to his chest. The scent of her shampoo lingered there, and he breathed it in, enjoying the familiarity of her scent, and wishing he could call for her like he had in the old days, luring her back to their bedroom for a leisurely morning of making love. However, these days their romantic escapades were more commonly enjoyed in the late evening when the kids were abed, or stolen during a particularly captivating episode of the_Backyardigans__. _

"When's Dada getting up?" a soft voice whispered in the hallway.

"Let Dada sleep. He'll be up soon enough, Jess," her mother replied in a hushed voice that filtered up the stairs from the kitchen.

He could count on one hand how many days he had lazed about in bed since the kids were born. He could count on his nose how many times Yvonne had . . . which made him feel a little bit guilty, until the aroma of bacon frying began invading his senses. Poas coffee and bacon, the porkers fed luxuriously on peanuts and acorns! _Mmm!_ Oh yeah, she was pulling out all the stops . . . which meant that at some point they were inevitably going to have that discussion about what it would mean if he didn't come back from this mission. That old song and dance was particularly painful. It always ended up with him feeling like an utter and complete swine, and her in tears. But it seemed to be cathartic somehow, at least for his wife, and if that was what it took to convince her that his dream job of flying space shuttles was a good thing, then he was willing to endure.

Dayton suddenly grinned, glad to leave those thoughts behind, at least for now. He could sense her arrival, even before he heard the padding of little feet across the carpet. Ever the expert in breaching security, Jess had made it past her mother, probably by sending Lauren in as a decoy. He looked across the bed to see a mass of golden curls begin to surface over the edge of the bed, and then a pair of big, mischievous brown eyes smiled into his.

"Are you awake, Dada?" she whispered adorably, her small fists curled into the quilt, ready to use it to propel herself upward.

"Just for my girl," he replied, feeling his chest tighten with emotion as she pulled herself onto the bed and start scurrying across to him with an impatience that was both familiar, and endearing. It was a tradition, their morning "hugs", and one that he treasured. For some reason he couldn't name, he suddenly really needed to hold her just now. He needed to feel that warm, little body curl into his chest, utterly trusting him to protect her for the rest of her life. Dear Lord, it felt like it had been years . . .

_Dada! Dada?_

_ Da __. . .__ day __. . .__ Dayton__ . . . _

_Yo! Dayton! Wake up!_

Dayton drew a ragged breath as he opened his eyes, his head snapping up. The air was cold, uncomfortably so. Damn, it was never quite warm enough in space, especially on these bloody Cylon ships. _Bloody hell, didn't Cylons ever invent heaters?_ Baltar must have had thermal underwear and battery-heated socks on while he was plotting and scheming to destroy humanity. With a bitter ache in his chest, and a quiet curse, Dayton remembered where he was. Jess' golden curls and mischievous brown eyes faded away, as the gossamer wisps of his dream vanished like mist at dawn. Quickly, he reoriented himself, as he glanced around the cockpit of the Hybrid Cylon Raider. His strike captain was looking back over his shoulder searchingly at him, while manoeuvring the fighter on a final approach for the _Galactica_. Although some bruising still discoloured Starbuck's face from their mission to Morlais the week before, despite almost being executed by the Cylons, and then being subject to a weird Cylon interrogation technique, the younger man looked well rested and recovered. The resilience of youth, it just wasn't fair.

"What's that look for, _Percolator Puss_?" Dayton groused, straightening up in his seat, ignoring the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes. He'd been up all night studying the detailed report that Malus, the IL Series Cylon-turned-Colonial, had compiled for "his eyes only" on the Clavis, the device that they had discovered on a planet that had had its entire civilization, a race called the Espridians, destroyed by the Cylons. The _Endeavour_ had used the Clavis to get to Morlais and back again when they'd gone to find Starbuck after he'd been apprehended by an Angylion sorceress, Eirys, from an alternate dimension. From what Malus had surmised, the device opened some kind of portal that transcended dimensions, allowing them to move through space and possibly even time. Although the computations had finally made some sense, he wasn't sure he could wrap his mind around the end result.

Initial studies on the Clavis had turned out to be incomplete. Woefully so. The mysterious Espridian element that the sphere was made of—amazingly dense and inscrutable in its composition, and resistant so far to every analytical technique in the book, Colonial or Cylon—actually turned out to be only the _outer_ vessel of the Clavis. Malus theorized that it was designed to protect the core, and did so most efficiently, since the IL still hadn't found a way to crack the nut, and the commander wasn't all that sure he _wanted_ him to. Malus also wondered if the outer shell somehow conducted the enormous energy force within, perhaps diffusing, controlling and directing the incredible power. The most intense and focused scans had rendered little more than mud, leaving the device's innermost mechanism as mysterious as ever. However, the husk had a strange . . . well, Dayton could only describe it as a life force. He'd wrapped his hands around it only once, on a dare from Baker. Eerily warm, for something that appeared metallic, it had begun to glow when he touched it, and he could feel the weirdest sensation in his fingertips, that he was certain came from the sphere. His fingers and lower arms had tingled for two days, afterwards. In addition, it had an intricate pattern of interlacing metal threads running around and into the ball, seemingly endlessly. He couldn't help but recall that the Espridians referred to the universe as the Infinite, and perhaps the endless metal threads was somehow symbolic of that.

The further along in the report Dayton went, the more he began to wonder if this power source that Malus was scientifically describing could possibly be antimatter? Did the Clavis somehow draw matter into itself, reacting with the antimatter, and producing the power required to trip the quantum strings fantastic? That would certainly produce prodigious quantities of energy, but _how_ did the matter get into the core? And if it _was _antimatter, how was it replenished? And how could the strange Espridian husk manage to keep the lid on the total annihilation such a reaction would engender? Way too many unanswered questions, but for the moment, no one else had a viable model for the device.

The deluge—seemingly of Biblical proportions—of data that Malus had sent him on it was prevalently complex mathematical algorithms which could make a guy's head split open after pouring over them for a few hours, trying to follow the IL's formulae and logic. What had started out as an incredibly exciting discovery had turned into complex and tedious stuff six hours after he'd started trying to decipher it all. The learning curve to go from mild-mannered Earth astronaut and mission commander, to invincible and sagacious Commander Mark Dayton of the Covert Operations Ship, _Endeavour_, was a constant challenge. Finally, he'd been left trying to decide what to do with the avalanche of information, how much to raise with Commander Adama, and how much to leave buried in Malus' techno babble. It had been a defining moment in his life, and his brief career with the Colonial Service, and one he still wasn't altogether comfortable with. Still, there wasn't much real choice the way he saw it. He had to let his conscience be his guide.

"Let's just say you were snoring so loud that I thought the ship was breaking apart," Starbuck retorted, with a sidelong look at his co-pilot, Dietra. He seemed totally oblivious to his commander's musings. "I was ready to abandon ship, women and strike captains first." Dietra immediately scoffed in amusement beside him. Like well-oiled machinery, together they brought the ship in for a perfect landing as the Raider set down in the _Galactica_'s Alpha Bay. "Someone has to lead you to safety, after all, Dee."

"My hero," she retorted wryly.

"And who better than Starbuck?" Dayton rejoined simultaneously. "Smart ass. Don't you have something better to do than torment _me_?"

"Actually . . . _mmm _. . . no. That's right at the top of my priority list today, Dayton," Starbuck replied, his tone a little less jovial than usual. "Especially on the way to a 'make or break' command meeting with Commanders Adama _and_ Cain, with a commanding officer that keeps nodding off, and could use a shave." Apparently, he wasn't as oblivious as Dayton had first thought of the importance of what was about to occur. "Something keeping you up at night, Old Man? Preying on your mind? Tearing away at your conscience?"

It was just a little too close to the mark for Dayton's liking. He ignored the words, and the assessing look the younger man again shot back at him, instead replying lightly, "Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about, kid. Alright, boys and girls. Let's go." He stood up from the third Cylon seat that generally wasn't used in the Hybrid Raiders, and glanced at his chronometer. "We meet the others in about fifteen centons."


	3. Chapter One: Part Two

Chapter One, Part Two

"Okay . . . let me get this straight," Commander Cain said slowly, lifting his swagger stick and pointing it at Dayton at the command meeting in the War Room, aboard the _Galactica_. "The intelligence that you're presenting, Commander Dayton, is based on the . . . the_hearsay_ of one missing Empyrean necromancer from a backwater planet . . ."

"_And_ bona fide Council of Twelve member," Dayton added swiftly, as Starbuck bristled beside him.

"Granted," Cain nodded. "But she came by this information from a vision she experienced while being tormented by some . . . demonic count in an . . . an alternate dimension. The same Count Iblis that the _Galactica_ encountered once before, and also apparently Ama's father." He paused, allowing the scepticism in his voice to disperse throughout the room, seeking occupancy. "Is that right?"

"Biological father," Starbuck interjected, sardonically. "He didn't exactly bounce her on his knee."

"That sums it up pretty well, Commander Cain," Dayton nodded politely, keeping his features composed, as he glanced at Starbuck. The young man dropped his gaze, shifting from foot to foot. He was still a bit touchy about the missing necromancer, and today it was showing.

"And she then passed that information on to Captain Starbuck . . . while he was battling demons with his . . . what did you call it? His_double__talker_?" Cain pressed, the incredulity in his voice gaining momentum.

Boomer snorted, apparently finding something funny in that.

"Double_walker_," Dayton clarified. "His twin spirit in another dimension, Prince Llewelyn."

"It sounds . . ." Cain shook his head. For a rare moment, it seemed that the Juggernaut was at a loss for words. "Absolutely . . ."

"Crazy. I know. And I'm the first to admit it, even though I am, as you may know, of a somewhat . . . mystical bent, myself. But it's all true, Commander Cain," Dayton averred, briefly meeting the eyes of each of those gathered: Adama, Colonel Croft, and Strike Captain Boomer of the _Galactica_, Cain, Colonel Tigh and Strike Captain Sheba of the _Pegasus_, Colonel Apollo and Strike Captain Starbuck from the_Endeavour_. "Intelligence we received from Malus when we first picked the IL up on Planet 'P' corroborates what we found out through Ama. Three _Abaddon_-class Base Ships set out from Cylon almost a hundred and five yahrens ago to explore a region of space, roughly that which the Fleet has been moving through for the last four sectars. The capital ship that dropped Malus and his garrison off eventually was hit by and rendered inert by a solar flare, and is now the _Endeavour_. Another, the _Harbinger_, ended up in a separate dimension, apparently sent there by Count Iblis to wreak revenge on the Angylions, and has now, along with her entire compliment of fighters and centurions, been destroyed." He momentarily replayed the scans of the enemy vessel being obliterated, as the Covert Operations Ship, _Endeavour_, recorded her first kill as a Colonial capital ship. "The third, the _Ravager_, is, according to what we have recently learned, currently in the sector of the galaxy containing Earth. If we don't do something about it now, the Cylons could _destroy_ Earth. Certainly they will locate it, and attempt to relay her position to Cylon, at the very least."

"Well, I hate to play Diabolis' advocate, but what makes you think they haven't already?" Cain countered.

"It seems to me that these beings from the Ship of Lights have intervened on behalf of the Fleet, or mankind, quite a few times." Dayton glanced at Adama who nodded. "Commander Adama?"

"Yes, the first notable time with Count Iblis," Adama filled in.

"And at Terra," Apollo added. "They preserved an entire civilization from annihilation by nuclear weapons."

"Ama told me while near Planet 'P' that she'd had a _celestial visitation_. That she was to prepare a messenger—Captain Dickins—to journey to Earth," Adama told them. "I'm not certain if it was this John . . ."

"I still believe it was this John who saved my life as a child when I chased a hockey card into traffic . . ." Dayton recounted, as fleeting images of the evil Count Iblis haunted his childhood memories. "Then I found out that I'm . . ." He still had a hard time believing it, despite the linguistic and genetic evidence. "That I'm actually a descendent of the Thirteenth Tribe of Kobol."

"Sounds like fate to me," Sheba inserted.

"Also on Planet 'P'," Boomer contributed. "We found out that the Ship of Lights had contacted a group of people on Earth, trying to get them to prepare for our eventual arrival. And that of the Cylons." He glanced at Dayton. "And Commander Dayton found out that his daughter was the Executive Director of the Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency on Earth."

"At a cursory glance it all _seems_ coincidental, yes. But it's just too deliberate, too well planned," Sheba inserted. "It cannot be anything other than a path laid out for us." She looked at her father, as she spoke the last words, knowing he liked to believe he navigated his own course through life, and any departure from that would leave him uncomfortable, despite his early Kobollian upbringing, which he'd largely left behind.

"And along the way we picked up the Empyreans," Starbuck added. "And just a secton ago, John and his kind used Ama to neutralize Count Iblis, and his plan to use those Cylons to wipe out an entire race of Angylions. After which they could have traversed back into our dimension, and attacked the Fleet." He paused a moment, clearing his throat. "She told me it was her destiny."

"_Used_, Starbuck?" Adama repeated curiously.

"Yes, sir," the young man nodded, a little defiantly. Yeah, for some reason he definitely had his knickers in a knot. "She didn't exactly go in with a thorough briefing that she'd be taking on Diabolis, himself, when she set out to find _me_."

"Somehow, I don't think it would have stopped her, had she known, Starbuck," Adama assured him, as always seeming to know the right thing to say. "Ama was well-known for her devotion and selflessness."

"Yes, sir," Starbuck replied soberly. "But it seemed . . . _strategic_ on their part. The Ship of Lights Beings. I can't really explain it . . .it's just a gut feeling . . ."

"You think the entire mission to Morlais was a means to . . . neutralize Iblis? Orchestrated by the Beings of Light?" Adama asked, his eyebrows raised. The very idea gave him a feeling of hope. If _Iblis_, the very font of all that was corrupt and evil, could be neutralized . . .

"That, and to give us a way to make it to Earth before it's too late, sir," Starbuck replied. He took a half step forward, raising his chin slightly as met the Juggernaut's eyes. "Still sound crazy, Commander?"

"It seems that in this instance, _crazy_ has some sort of plan to it, Captain," Cain returned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He looked from Starbuck to Sheba. "No denying that."

"Yes, sir," Starbuck nodded.

"Which is why we have to go _now_," Dayton replied. "Our repairs are scheduled to be completed in less than two centars, my crew is rested, the Clavis is functional . . ." He paused, feeling Starbuck's eyes on him, _boring_ into him in fact. "Did you get Malus' report, Commander?"

"I did," Adama agreed. "Highly technical."

"That's not a _report_," Cain inserted sourly. "It's a headache waiting to happen."

Adama smiled at the Juggernaut, apparently in agreement. "We looked at it briefly, but haven't had a chance to really absorb it yet, Commander Dayton," he admitted. "Obviously, you've concluded it will get you to Earth."

"Yes, Commander," Dayton agreed. "As you know from my mission report, the Espridians used the Clavis to travel peaceably to other planets, and quietly observe them. Malus found records of a planet in the Espridian data banks that just _has_ to be Earth. The geophysical, geochemical, and geological analyses, as well as documented observations on Earth culture and civilization, even images of the planet's one large moon, all support this." He punched a few buttons, bringing holographic data up. There was the image of a planet, with data scrolling slowly up. They all looked at it, Dayton with a sharp pang.

"Can we use the Clavis to bring _more_ than one ship to Earth?" Cain asked, studying the data. The similarity between Earth, and the basic geophysical parameters of Caprica, Gemon, and Piscon were truly amazing.

"Unfortunately, we haven't as yet determined that, Commander," inserted Dayton. "As we say on Earth, what you don't know, _can_ hurt you." He looked at the others. "For what it's worth—and no offence to Doctor Wilker and his team—we cannot afford to wait until we find out if the whole Fleet can do it. We don't have the leisure of experimenting, as much as we all wish that were so."

"I was actually thinking more in terms of the _Pegasus_, rather than the whole Fleet, Commander. At least at this point," Cain clarified. "While I realize you're an experienced military man, you're also relatively new to our technology and our ways. Having the _Pegasus_ along might prevent another Morlais."

Sheba frowned, raising her eyebrows at her father.

"Prevent another Morlais . . ." Dayton echoed in disbelief. "I'm proud of the way my crew performed at Morlais. They came together to overcome situations that_ none_ of us had any experience with. Unless, of course, you can redirect me to the parts in the manual that deal with interdimensional travel, sorcery, and demons."

Cain smiled wryly, shaking his head slightly as he passed his swagger stick from one hand to the other. "You, your executive officer,_and_your strike captain were all _off_ the Bridge, indeed off the _Endeavour_ . . ."

"That's right. And who's in charge of the _Pegasus_, just now?" Starbuck inserted, pointedly looking at the three senior officers of the Battlestar, as Dayton put a restraining hand on his shoulder, squeezing it _hard_. "Uh, sir."

"Down, boy," Dayton murmured in English, before turning to engage Cain. The man had all the arrogance of General Patton, but none of his fashion sense, with the gold brocade, swagger stick, and Elvis haircut. He had no idea what Cassiopeia ever saw in the man. "Granted, we debarked the _Endeavour_, leaving Captain Dorado in charge, an officer that I'm proud to serve with, and who can step into a command role whenever necessary, like hand in glove. His military record clearly shows that from when you, Commander Cain, promoted him to captain on the _Pegasus_. And again, when he and a skeleton crew aboard a derelict Cylon ship were the first to engage a _Hades_-class Base Ship near Planet 'P'."

"And survive," added Sheba.

"It was Dorado who first dreamed up the idea of converting a broken down Base Ship to a Covert Operations Ship," Starbuck added, also coming to his shipmate's defence. "He saw the potential before anybody else. And look at the dividends it has paid."

"And look what he overcame when he was almost killed on Planet 'P'." Apollo moved forward to join them. "Sagan, he was practically rebuilt himself, using cybernetic technology, in combination with Colonial medicine. It takes real character not to languish in self-pity, and to move on after something like that, Commander Cain. You, of all men, should understand that." The reference to the brain implant that Cain had received, which had given him a startling recovery from a cerebrovascular incident, was not missed. "Sir."

"Yes," Sheba added, in complete agreement. "Father, you know very well that Dorado did a good job in Morlais. His abilities and leadership were never in question."

"Fine, fine," Cain added, waving a hand dismissively. "Dorado's a good man, I'll go along with that. But you also lost Baltar, Dayton. The traitor of Colonial humanity."

"That was m. . ." Starbuck started to insert.

"And saved an entire race of humanoids in the process, Cain," Dayton barrelled over his strike captain's comment. "Plus, the Fleet doesn't need his mouth to feed, considering. It seemed an acceptable exchange."

"More than acceptable," Adama added, stepping between the two men. "Commander Dayton will be just fine without your . . . _tutelage_, Cain. I have every faith in his ability as a leader."

"As do I, Commander," Apollo added, reminding the Juggernaut, "As well, our most effective offence is the fact that we appear Cylon at first glance."

"Meaning, the _Pegasus_ positioned off our starboard just _might_ make them suspicious," Starbuck added wryly.

Dayton smirked. The kid had a point.

"Commander Dayton," Colonel Tigh interjected, getting them back on track. "Just to clarify, is this mission's priority making contact with Earth, or finding that Cylon Base Ship?"

Dayton hesitated for just a moment. However, he'd spent enough time clawing his own way up through the ranks in the US Air Force to know what they wanted to hear. "The Base Ship, Colonel. That's Count Iblis' trump card, meant to negate any technological advances we tried to put in place, although the incarceration of Captain Dickins and Technician Hummer on Earth seem to have effectively eradicated any small progress we tried to make. That and the fact that we've run out of time. From what I understand, Earth won't have the capability to defend herself against what I believe to be an imminent Cylon attack. Even from a Base Ship as outdated as this one is." He hesitated just long enough to let that sink in. "I think Commander Adama would agree that any actual contact with Earth would necessitate some kind of bureaucratic or political envoy." He didn't miss Starbuck's look of surprise. "We don't have time right now to bring the Council back into session, for them to endlessly debate how we should approach our first contact with Earth." He glanced at Adama. "As Earth Liaison, I'd suggest that be discussed in chambers while we're on our mission, Commander. Now, while this situation has always been inevitable, I don't think any of us thought we'd be approaching that inevitability quite so soon."

"Agreed," Adama replied. "Just so there is no misunderstanding, Commander Dayton, this is to be purely a military mission. The_Endeavour_will find and destroy the _Ravager_, but you will do everything possible to prevent being detected by Earthmen. This is, as you have stated, a delicate bureaucratic situation, and I want it handled by those most qualified and suited for it."

"I understand, Commander," Dayton replied.

"Well, if there is nothing else?" asked Adama, looking around.

Cain opened his mouth.

"Even if there were," said Tigh, glancing at his chrono, "we obviously don't have the time for it."

"Yes," said Dayton abruptly. "As another Earth saying puts it, '_Gorunen koy kilavuz istemez_' Or, 'A village seen in the distance does not require a guide.' Our course is obvious. We must move."

"Agreed. Stations, everyone," said Adama.

"Countdown has begun," said Dayton, punching a button on his commlink. "_Endeavour_ countdown T-Minus three centars, and counting."

"Lords of Kobol go with you," said Adama, reaching over and grasping his forearm, in a traditional warrior's grip.

"Thank you, sir," said Dayton. He looked at Cain, but the _Pegasus_ commander was just studying the bird on his swagger stick thoughtfully, and said nothing. It was just as well.


	4. Chapter One: Part Three

"That man is arrogant with a capital 'A'," Dayton growled, Starbuck and Apollo flanking him as they headed apace back to the launch bay.

"He's the Juggernaut," Apollo returned, even his voice sounding like a shrug. "I don't think he ever imagined another capital ship being the one to take on missions like this when he decided to rejoin the Fleet. He probably saw the_ Pegasus_ in that role."

"_Decided_ to rejoin the Fleet?" Starbuck returned, pulling a fumarello out of his flight jacket. A moment later, fumarello met ignitor, and another beautiful but short-lived relationship began, as the strike captain puffed lovingly on his smoke. "Are you implying that Cain wouldn't have come back if the_ Pegasus_ hadn't been so battle damaged?"

"Good point," added Dayton. "I saw the ship. She looked like she'd been used for a gunnery target."

"By Cain's account, after Gamoray they were out there shadowing the Fleet, basically running interference for us. Admittedly, I'm not sure how much of that to believe. However, what I _do_ know is that after setting out from Molecay, and not answering to any commanding officer, I don't think Cain particularly enjoyed being subordinate to my father at Gamoray," Apollo informed them, having had a few opportunities to spend some time in the Juggernaut's formidable presence. While his first impression had been that Cain didn't think _any_ man was worthy of his daughter, gradually that had changed, and now the living legend seemed to be making a bit more of an effort to informally welcome Apollo into the family . . . while making sure he imparted countless words of wisdom and shared anecdotes that generally featured his own courageous and often unconventional exploits. Not only was the man a legend in his own time, but he was obviously a legend in his own mind, however deserved.

"You think?" Starbuck quipped, rolling his eyes.

"By the way, what was grinding your beans in there, _Espresso Truffle_? You were like a dog defending his bone," Dayton posed.

Starbuck shook his head, waving a dismissive hand at the commander, sending smoke wafting about. "Just a little uptight about the mission, I guess. Especially the Clavis part of it," he muttered with a sidelong look at Dayton.

"Did you talk to Chameleon?" Apollo asked his friend.

Starbuck glanced at him briefly, grimacing slightly. As usual, Apollo could see right through his insouciance.

"Starbuck, you might never see him again," Apollo reminded him.

"And that's different from every _other_ mission I go on, _how_?" Starbuck retorted fervently. He clamped the fumarello between his teeth.

"Kid, he's your_ father_," Dayton shrugged. "Take fifteen minutes to say goodbye before we go."

"_Look_," Starbuck replied in exasperation around his smoke. "My spending another fifteen centons with my father, isn't going to make that time any more meaningful or worthwhile than what we've spent together in the last sectars. I . . . I just don't see the point."

"Look, _French Vanilla. _Before we launched on our mission from Earth that put us in your neck of the woods, I passed up a chance to see my old man. After all, what's a couple of days, huh? I'll be back, and he and Mom and me . . . we'll have all the time in the world. Then . . ." He moved closer. "Right now, I'd give a hell of a lot to be able to see my father, one more time. Something _I_ can never do! But you can!"

"Well, it's . . ."

"It's called a _re-la-tion-ship_," Dayton said it slowly and purposely. "They take work."

"Yeah, well some take more work than others," Starbuck snapped back. "And you _still_ get stabbed in the back . . .I don't _believe_ . . ." He huffed in aggravation, raking his hand through his hair before, stopping mid-stride and turning around. "Frackin' Hades hole . . . I . . . I'll see you back on the _Endeavour_, Dayton," he muttered, as he began to stride away back the way they'd come.

"Hey! Starbuck!" Apollo called after him, hesitating when his friend refused to look back, merely raising his hands in the air as if he could symbolically ward off any more questions he didn't want to deal with. It was an ingrained coping mechanism for the warrior.

Dayton sighed, watching him walk away. "What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm not sure," Apollo shook his head, glancing at his chrono. He needed to see Boxey before they shipped out. "And I don't have time to find out either."

"Me neither. I'm supposed to be meeting with Ryan, Baker and Porter in thirty centons . . ._ and _I'm suddenly down a pilot to get me back to the _Endeavour_," Dayton realized. "_Starbuck_," he growled under his breath, tempted to have his strike captain commed overhead, and ordered to the launch bay, but also knowing innately that he'd only live to regret it one way or the other. "Damn!"


	5. Chapter One: Part Four

"Considering we need to infiltrate Cheyenne Mountain, the Wraith is the _key_, Luana," Paddy Ryan was telling her from under the fuselage, as he worked on the latest modifications for the prototype of the Espridian ship's revamped weapons system, utilizing one of the Dynamos they had recovered from Planet 'P'. The Espridians had utilized the Wraiths to observe and record their impressions of planets and cultures that they had visited around the universe, but their peaceable missions had left little need for weapons. However, Starbuck had pressed Ryan to try to incorporate the strange technology that they had ultimately attributed to the Beings of Light, having once flown a Viper prototype _without_ a weapons system, and not intending for his wife to ultimately do the same. Weirdly, even though they still didn't altogether understand precisely how the Dynamos worked, they were still able to integrate the disparate systems with Malus' help, along with some weird algorithms that their resident chief warrant officer had announced out of the blue one day like an Empyrean prophet when it had seemed they had reached an impasse. For his part, Ryan had serious difficulty entertaining the thought that somehow those very Beings of Light were offering them the crucial elements needed to make it work, at the very moment they most needed them, as they had apparently done long ago when they'd supplied the Colonials with the reckoning path to Earth. Unless it was _Ama_ . . . "We're _still_ figuring out just what this baby can do."

"_Cheyenne Mountain?_ Go on," Lu's brows knit, as Ryan mumbled something to Baker in English, and the other Earthman passed him a tool.

"Along with those we have identified, the Dynamo circuits emit a number of other energies, the properties of which are still unknown to us. Either by Colonial science, or back on Earth. There may even be some we haven't learned to detect, yet. Yet, they somehow seem to integrate smoothly with those we _do_ know about, and the device's programming processes whatever input they're sending through without batting an eye." He motioned for her to hunker down, and peer under the machine.

"Yeah?"

"Right in here," he tapped a smooth black metal case. "This is where, as far as we can tell, it all comes together."

"The brains," she said.

"Yup. Even Malus with his glorified light-bulb on override hasn't been able to crack it all, but in here, the entire operation is coordinated, making the Wraiths what they are."

"It seems so . . . small," she said, running her fingers along the casing.

"Yeah. But from what we can tell, it has twice the computing power of any machine in the Fleet, except the _Galactica_'s mainframe. But we still don't know just _how _it does it."

"It's incredible."

"That's one word for it. Don't worry, darlin'. You'll get to try her out soon."

"Promises, promises. I still can't believe you let Starbuck take it out first. This is _my_ project," she sniffed.

"He was worried about you," Ryan consoled her. "He didn't want you flying it in case something went wrong with the Dynamo."

She frowned at him.

"Hey, just be thankful that chivalry is not dead, and has apparently been reincarnated in the Fleet's former Stupor Stud," Baker chuckled.

"I think you mean _Super_ Stud . . ." Ryan corrected him, before grinning mischievously. "Then again, maybe you don't . . ."

"_Hmm_," Lu allowed, dropping it. "How does this surveillance equipment compare to what your people had?"

"In the _bad old days_ back on Earth, we used a parabolic microphone system for audio surveillance purposes," Ryan grinned, looking up at her. "Heck, I bought one to help me win playing paint ball. Paid three hundred and fifty bucks for it on eBay, and kicked my buddy's ass. We knew where he and his loud-mouthed brothers were the whole time." He chuckled in remembrance. "Then, I found I could have bought it for a hundred bucks less, from a friend at CSIS. Anyway, we pointed it in a certain direction, and essentially it would pick up various sound frequencies that could be modulated. However, the range was seriously limited, and it sure as hell couldn't penetrate something as secure as Cheyenne Mountain."

"Paint ball? Ebay? CSIS" Lu asked, her brows knit in confusion. Most conversations with these Earthmen were like that. They were great guys, but constant translations were necessary.

Baker waved a hand dismissively. "Paint ball was essentially grown men playing war. Usually drunk. Sometimes naked. Occasionally both." He glanced at Paddy wryly. Ryan refused to rise to the bait, merely shrugging in apparent agreement. "Ebay was pretty much an internet-based auctioneer. A place to buy and sell things. CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. He had friends in low places, don't you know."

"Sure did. A few were even Mounties," Ryan grinned. "Anyhow, about the time the _Endeavour_ launched, law enforcement and intelligence services in the United Kingdom and the US had the technology to remotely activate the microphones in personal cell phones," Ryan continued. "They could access the phone's diagnostic and maintenance features in order to listen to conversations taking place nearby."

"Sorry? _Cell phones_?" Lu asked.

"Communicators, Lu," Baker told her, holding his up for her to see, then explained the term. "There was a war on against terrorism, and we had to accept that certain personal liberties would come second to national security."

"So, you're going to try and modulate a frequency that can do the same thing from the Wraith?" Luana asked Ryan.

"You go to the head of the class, darlin'," Ryan grinned.

"Then these cell phone microphones will act like a _transceiver_, and we can listen in on conversations from the Wraith to find out what's going on?"

"Listen in _and_ record them, so we can wade through them later. Just about everybody _has_ a cell phone these days, and just as long as the technology we're talking about still exists, then it should be a piece of cake," Ryan agreed. "When we left, Canada and the US were mostly converted from the old analogue technology, to a purely digital system. Other countries were following suit. Hopefully, the switchover is complete. Both this stuff, and Colonial tech, is all digital, or as close as it can come to it."

"If not, we'll find something else," Baker inserted. "They've probably come a long way since we left. IPOD's, Blackberries, chips in credit cards . . . who knows what we'll be able to tap into. It's the communication age. We'll dig up something."

"Exactly," Ryan said, ducking his head back under the ship to continue his work. "From the diagnostics we've been running on the Wraith's surveillance systems, she can easily penetrate Cheyenne Mountain. That way we'll find out if Dick and Hummer are really there. Two guys from outer space, flying around in a souped up Orbiter Space Shuttle, someone's sure to be talking about them."

"_And_ where the Space Shuttle _Endeavour_ ended up," Baker added.

"Either at Wright-Pat, or 51," said Ryan. Lu frowned, and they explained once again.

"Right. I thought . . ." Lu hesitated. After all, these were Commander Dayton's closest friends. They could certainly be privy to information that she wasn't. "I _heard_ that our primary objective is finding and destroying the Base Ship. Are we going to Earth too?" Starbuck hadn't really committed one way or another on that. In fact, he'd been downright elusive on the matter. Her husband had known Commander Adama wouldn't like the idea, especially as President of the Council of Twelve, but the idea of going all the way to Earth's star system, and doing nothing to help Dickins and Hummer seemed a bit restrained. And that was something no one had ever accused her husband _or_ their commander of. She wondered if . . . if Dayton was going to do whatever he wanted, no matter what Commander Adama decided at the Command meeting. A growing unease twisted her guts. It might explain why Starbuck was so on edge this morning, after his usual morning meeting with Malus. Unless it was _Malus' newly adjusted "illumination colouration scheme". It took a bit of getting used to, seeing the blue lights in the IL's optical scanner array, and the red ones around his vocal modulator. However, Malus insisted that the altered colour arrangement made him look and feel more human, with his blue "eyes" and red "lips". But she knew that what he really meant was, more like __Starbuck__._

"If _we_ have anything to do with it, Sweet Cakes," Ryan called out.

"Sooner or later, that is," Baker abruptly added, kicking Ryan's leg under the fighter. "I guess we find out for sure when Dayton gets back." He glanced at his chrono. "At least we'll be ready when we _do_ go. Whenever that is."


	6. Chapter One: Part Five

Chapter One, Part Five

Starbuck stood outside the door, hesitating, his hand hovering bare centimetrons from the entry panel. He couldn't quite bring himself to key in the code that she'd given him to use at his discretion sectars before. After all, it had never been necessary. Hadn't she always just _known_ he was there without him having to actually activate an entry chime? Hadn't she always been there for him when he needed her . . . whether he liked it or not?

Of all the places in the Fleet to steal away to, this one _didn't_ make a lot of sense. Still, he'd grabbed the first shuttle he could get to the _Malocchio_ Freighter. He sniffed self-consciously, leaning his forehead against the cold surface of the door, as he thought about his blind, headlong rush to get here. A place to look for answers to impossible questions. It had been instinct. Blind faith.

_Through blind faith hope springs eternally._

Starbuck smiled slightly, not even caring where the memory of her words had come from. It was still comforting to hear her voice, picture her face, feel her presence. It had only been a secton since she'd disappeared without a trace, and his last encounter with her in the Brig after Baltar had left with Eirys had been so . . . so _surreal_ . . . it still made him wonder at times if he'd only imagined it, if she was really gone for good.

Lords, he could sure use her advice right now.

It had been just over three sectars since they'd found out that exposure to Cylon toxins on Planet 'P' had left Luana infertile. At the time, it had seemed unreal. They'd been completely stunned. After all, they weren't even entertaining the thought of starting a family. He'd taken the "wait and see" approach, and had suggested to Lu she do the same. Hey, if it happened, it happened. After all, he just couldn't believe there was _no _chance. But for some reason with women, what they couldn't have, they wanted all the more. And _now_. He'd watched his normally optimistic wife become downright despondent on occasion, crying herself to sleep, staring blankly at herself in the mirror, and looking at him expectantly through misty eyes as though_ he _should have all the answers. After all, wasn't it his role to make everything all right?

Well, infertility wasn't something he could fix with a laser blast or a Hybrid salvo. Yet, it just about killed him to see Lu so miserable. He'd caught himself a time or two _almost_ suggesting they adopt from the Orphan Ship, just to make her happy, but now wasn't the time to take on the additional responsibility of a child. Hades hole, he barely had time as it was to eat, sleep and turbo wash. Forget duty. No, when _he_ became a father, he was going to be _there_ for his child, not working sixteen centar days . . .

_Now, wait a centon, Bucko . . ._

No, if Colonial Medicine was correct, he wasn't _going_ to become a father. Certainly not by Luana. Cassie had reaffirmed the test results again just the day before, which had launched Lu into another emotional meltdown. His wife had even confided tearfully last night that she thought it was only a matter of time before his infamous wandering eye would set its sites on some particularly fecund female who could fulfil his hopes and dreams of little Starbucks running around . . . Little did she know that at this point his hopes and dreams only aspired for him to be able to look at her without feeling so fracking helpless . . . or guilty that he hadn't protected her to begin with.

He ran a hand wearily over his face, feeling as though he'd had the mong kicked out of him. Meanwhile, they were both doing their best to keep up appearances, determined not let it interfere with their jobs. Sadly, he decided that Lu might have become almost as accomplished as himself at pasting on a brave face. Yeah, add to all that what he had found out this morning from Malus . . . and all goddamned day he'd been walking around in a daze, feeling about as effective as a Mega-Pulsar with a dysfunctional projection matrix. Normally, he'd face things head on, but today, of all days, he could barely manage to do his job . . .

"I don't know if you can hear me, Ama," he whispered, missing the scheming and pushy old woman more than ever, "but, Hades hole, right now I could _really_ . . ."

Abruptly, the door _hissed_ as it opened before him, unbidden.

"_Ama_?" he gasped uncertainly, pausing at the threshold, and gazing inside into the dimly lit room. Familiar lingering scents of burned candles, incense, good food, and fine fumarellos flavoured the air, beckoning him inward. The room seemed to come alive with the necromancer's spirit, as fleeting memories of her raced through his mind. It was eerily quiet, the distant vibration of the ship's engines barely perceptible. Tentatively, he stepped inside.

"It's not Ama, son. It's only me," Chameleon said, stepping into the light. He smiled at the strike captain. "I'm not sure why, but I had this sudden compulsion to come here." The old conman shook his head in bemusement, looking around. "I can't really explain it. I suppose I just . . . _miss_ her." He took a step closer to the warrior. "Obviously, you must as well. She's the closest thing you've had to a mother since . . .well . . ." He broke off, leaving the words, along with the past, suspended in the air between them.

Starbuck drew in a sharp breath, feeling a pang in his chest. His troubles with Lu were only compounded by Ama's loss. His wife's godmother had managed to act as a kind of buffer between them, until now. If only she'd been there when Cassie had delivered the crushing news. Ama would have known what to say . . . when obviously _he_ didn't. His eyes prickled traitorously, as he gazed into his father's eyes, seeing the compassion as well as the sorrow there. Lords, did Chameleon know too? Instantly, Starbuck turned away on the pretence of opening the display case that held Ama's prized Empyrean fumarellos. Determined to regain his composure, he forced down that beast known as emotion, which now threatened to rear its ugly head and devour him.

Not only had the last day been nerve-wracking, but several times in the last secton, he'd been caught defending himself from some emotional miasma. There was too much on his mind, and not enough Empyrean ale aboard to help him forget it. Hardest to take after Ama's loss was the fact that it seemed _wrong_ that the Beings Of Light, who had presented themselves as so altruistic up until now, had apparently manipulated the series of events so that Ama inevitably met and fought her long-forgotten father in some kind of spiritual battle, on another plane of existence. In addition, she had appeared to be the victor, yet her conspicuous absence had made it a hollow victory, by his account.

"What brought _you_ here?" Chameleon asked, turning towards a longseat.

Starbuck smiled wryly, lightly fingering a fumarello. He wasn't quite ready to turn around, yet. Just as he wasn't ready to admit to the strange coincidence that had brought them together. "A shuttle."

Chameleon sniffed in amusement. "Not exactly what I meant."

"I know."

Silence filled the void that Ama couldn't, as a long moment passed. With a shortage of space in the Fleet, it was almost unnerving how the Empyreans had chosen to maintain their revered necromancer's quarters, as though she were merely on leave. Meanwhile, nobody really knew what to make of her disappearance officially. For now she was merely recorded as "missing".

"Is it something that _I_ can help with?" Chameleon finally asked. "I've picked up a few tricks along the way. _More_ than a few really."

Starbuck smiled, half-turning to glance at the old conman, as he pulled the fumarello out of the case, closing it. "A trick or two might come in handy . . ."

"Then have a seat." Chameleon motioned towards the longseat where Ama had routinely entertained her guests. Together they crossed the room, both sitting, and sinking into the comfortable furniture. A moment later, an ignitor was in the conman's hands, and he lit it, holding it for his son. "I had a dream about her just before you came back from your mission."

"You did?" Starbuck asked, lightly puffing on the smoke, and then drawing it deep into his lungs once it ignited, savouring the flavour. He nodded at his father in thanks, before holding out his hand to reclaim the ignitor that the old man had pocketed from him at some unknown moment in the last couple centons.

Chameleon grinned mischievously, dropping the "borrowed" item back into his son's hand. "I did. She told me that she was well, and that our separation would only be temporary." He dropped his eyes, as he folded his hands in his lap. His voice was more subdued when he continued. "I . . . I took comfort in that."

"Ah," Starbuck nodded, unsure how much comfort the message really provided. "You believe she'll be back?"

The corners of the conman's mouth lifted ever so slightly. "I'm trying _very_ hard to believe. It's not easy."

Starbuck smiled, recognizing the scepticism in his father's tone. They were two of a kind, alright. "How's that going?"

"Well, a little bit better now that I've happened upon _you_ here, so surprisingly," admitted the conman. "Did she somehow bring us together, I wonder?"

Starbuck sat quietly, thinking it over briefly. However, thoughts like that could drive a shallow man to a new depth he wasn't particularly eager to sink to. He took another drag on his fumarello, blowing out the smoke. "Her last words to _me_ . . ." He paused, dropping his own eyes, even as he felt his father's curious gaze back on him. Ama had told him to share some long suppressed memories with Chameleon. He had promised her he would, although he would much rather tuck them away with the rest of his memories, where they couldn't hurt anyone.

"Yes?" Chameleon asked, his voice anxious.

"While I was on the mission, some memories of my childhood . . . well . . . came back." His father didn't need to know that it was while being interrogated by a Cylon Brain Probe. He closed his eyes as his mother's voice returned to him, as clear as if she was sitting there between them. _Mama needs you to be her brave boy. Can you do that for me?_

"What memories, Starbuck?" Chameleon asked, leaning towards his son.

"Ma . . ." He hesitated. _Mama_. It sounded so juvenile, and was hardly appropriate for a grown man to refer to his mother to, although it was the only name he remembered ever calling her by. He tucked the name away, not able to equate the child who had said it to the man he was now. "I remember her carrying me through the Thorn Forest, trying to evade the Cylons. They were tracking us." His voice dropped, becoming a rasping whisper. "I could hear them. Their tramping through the brush. That God-awful droning sound. The laser fire, and the screams. Then . . ." _Quiet like a mouse, brave like a leon._ He breathed in a steadying breath, shaken that something that had happened so long ago, which he hadn't even consciously remembered until last secton, had this power over him. "She hid me in a thicket." He tried to swallow the lump lodged in his throat as the series of events replayed in his mind.

"Go on," Chameleon whispered. For a long moment, the fighter pilot said nothing. Just stared at the floor. "Please, son."

"It was _my_ fault, Chameleon." Starbuck's voice, when it came, was husky. "I was crying . . . carrying on. She . . . she hid me. . . told me to stay quiet." He could still picture the eerie sky, filled with smoke, and glowing with the fires of destruction. He could still hear the horrifying screams and laser fire, and feel the long-ago terror of a small child huddled in a thicket, as his mother acted as a decoy, and led the Cylons—the ultimate childhood monsters—away. "She told me not to come out . . . until one of you came to get me." His voice was brittle. "They followed her . . . they . . .they . . ." This time the lump effectively choked off his words.

The old conman's hand squeezed his arm, and a long moment of silence passed between them, as father and son were lost in their separate thoughts.

"You can come out now, son," Chameleon finally whispered hoarsely. "I'm here."

Starbuck gasped out a strangled breath, struggling to contain his emotions. He might have succeeded if his father hadn't chosen that moment to rise, then kneel in front of his son, grasping the hands that were clenched into tight fists, and forcing his son to look into his eyes.

"It wasn't your fault, Starbuck. What your mother did . . . she was always the brave one. I can't tell you how proud I am of her for it." Tears coursed down the wizened face, unchecked, igniting a maelstrom of emotion within the son, that he determinedly tried to clamp down upon. "She did what any loving and devoted mother would do, son. She protected her child, regardless of the risk. Even at the cost of her own life." Chameleon lifted a shaking hand, wiping at a wayward teardrop on his son's face, before glancing upward, his own eyes brimming over. His voice quivered in its heartfelt intensity. "My dear, dear Gabrielle. You would be so _proud_ of our son."


	7. Chapter One: Part Six

Dayton walked into his office, pausing while the door slid shut behind him, as he saw Ryan sitting in the chair behind his desk, Baker pouring himself a drink, and Porter glancing over a data pad that looked unmistakably like his. "Make yourself at home, guys." He deftly relieved Porter of the data pad, and then stared at Baker for a long moment. "Hey, pour yourself a few fingers."

Baker raised his glass, grinning. "Thanks, Mark. Don't mind if I do."

"He always did take good care of his own," Ryan added, raising his eyebrows and wriggling them as he raised his legs to rest them on the desk. He motioned at Baker to dose him. "Good of you to join us."

"Make yourself comfortable, Commander," Porter added with a grin.

"Looks like you beat me to it." Dayton brushed Ryan's legs off his desk. "Have a drink, Paddy. I hate to see you looking so uptight."

"I'm fighting it with everything I'm worth, Mark. My middle name is 'Relaxed', after all."

"Uh-huh." Dayton sat down, perching himself on the edge of the desk, as they handed the drinks around. With a bit of effort, Dietra had managed to scare him up a pilot qualified on the Hybrids to get him back for his meeting with his men, albeit a little late. Starbuck could thumb a ride back, for all he cared. "So what's so important that you needed to see me before we shipped out?"

"Are we going?" Ryan replied rapid fire.

Dayton dropped his friend's steady gaze, letting out a long breath, as he regained his feet. "Our assigned mission is to find the Base Ship, _Ravager_, and destroy her."

"What about Dick and Hummer?" Baker asked.

"We've been directed to avoid Earth detecting us at all costs."

"And?" Baker asked expectantly.

"I . . . I haven't quite worked it all out yet," Dayton admitted, looking into his glass. After a few seconds, he took a swig.

"How can you even _think_ about getting that close to Earth and not setting your feet on it, Mark?" Baker asked. "God, I can practically feel the mud between my toes."

"I didn't say we _wouldn't_ be going eventually, Bob, just that we need to take a little time to figure out what the hell's happened there. I mean, why would our own military toss Dick and Hummer in the slammer at Cheyenne Mountain, when our guys could clearly fill the brass in on what's been happening on _our_ end?" Dayton replied. "You guys have been instrumental in figuring out ways that we can get the data we need, and for that I'm thankful . . ."

"I vote we get them out first, and ask those questions _later_," Ryan inserted. "The last I remember, when we left in 2010, American policy on interrogation wasn't exactly 'ask nicely'."

"Dick survived Torg and Bex, he can survive cooling his heels . . ." Porter began.

"Whoa, now!" Dayton inserted, his voice raising, and then falling again. "These are _Americans _that we're talking about! Our own people! Hell's Bells, I mean Dick is a well-respected astronaut, a published scientist,_ and_ bona fide American war hero, not a friggin' terrorist!"

"Well, apparently they treat heroes a little differently these days," Ryan returned caustically.

"You _don't_ know that for certain," Dayton leaned down, grabbing a fistful of Ryan's shirt for a moment, hauling him forward, before thinking better of it, and releasing him again. The man dropped back down into the chair. "I'm sorry, I . . . well, there has to be _some_ reasonable explanation, Paddy . . ."

"Well, there's an explanation, all right, but who knows if it's _reasonable_," Ryan replied, straightening the creases in his shirt. "C'mon, Mark, all I'm saying is that politically speaking, we don't know _what's_ happened since we've been gone." Then he added more calmly, "It had to have been big if this Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency has replaced NASA, CSA, ESA, JSA, and all the rest of the alphabet soup."

"Especially if this Count Iblis was involved, like everybody seems to _think_," Baker agreed. "Remember him? He was a demonic being, not a court jester." Ryan snorted at the choice of words. "Okay, powerful, unquantifiable, unclassified, non-corporeal life form."

Ryan nodded slightly, apparently mollified, before adding, "'Mean son-of-a-bitch' would have sufficed."

"Whatever. Chances are if he left his imprint on Earth, it wasn't to fill it with peace, love, and understanding."

"And in this uncertain environment, you want to play _Mission: Impossible_, bust in and break out our guys?" Dayton asked incredulously. Going into the command meeting with Adama, he'd been torn between expediency and honesty. If he'd gone in telling them he wanted to rescue Dick and Hummer, he had a strong suspicion that Adama would have sent Cain along with them in some kind of advisory capacity . . . and then in self-defence he'd have been forced to short-circuit the Juggernaut's brain implant, which would probably be grounds for a court martial. No, he couldn't in all good conscience just leave the two men there, while the Council of Twelve deliberated over how best to approach Earth's dignitaries. But he couldn't exactly land a Hybrid fighter on the lawn of the White House, demanding their release either. "Listen, it's obvious we need to straighten out a few things once we get there, but it can be done _without_ breaking in to a high security military base . . ."

"Better than appealing to the government, and ending up in the same position as Dick and Hummer," Ryan countered. "I've done my time in prison, and I don't much care to repeat it, not even if it _is_ on good ol' Mother Earth."

"Well, who said you were coming?" Dayton countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Don't jerk my chain, Mark. Or I'll overflow all over you," Ryan snarled.

"Ryan," Porter inserted, "Mark has a point. You sound a bit paranoid, old loon. Like you actually think the good guys switched sides since we left home. This is just one fleeting impression—or maybe _vision_ is a better word—that you're basing an entire evolved culture on. Like bad sci-fi, inspired by Orwell."

"Well, that's good then!" Ryan returned. "Paranoid's exactly how I _feel_, when I find out that the two guys we sent through a wormhole to Earth in order to kick start their technology into something that can defend our people against Cylons, are suddenly incarcerated!" His tone was deadly serious. " Face it, something's dodgy in Dodge, boys." He glanced at Baker. "What do you think, Bob?"

"Well, I'll agree that the first thing I want to see is Dick and Hummer out of stir, and back safely with us. Then I'm willing to let Mark talk all he wants with the President. Even have tea in the Oval Office, for all I care."

"And breaking two guys out of Cheyenne Mountain doesn't strike you two as putting a black mark on visiting emissaries representing another tribe of humans from across the galaxy?" Dayton asked. "Especially when we show up with our Base Ship, and park it in Earth's orbit?"

"Wonder what they charge for parking these days?" Ryan quipped. "We might need to take out a loan on the _Endeavour_, using her as collateral."

"We'll put it on your Citibank VISA," Dayton returned with a wan smile, before drawing in a deep breath, and letting it out again. "Look, the first thing we need to do is find that Base Ship that is supposed to be nearing Earth. Find her, and destroy her. That's our top priority. That's what I told Adama I'd do, and I have every intention of doing just that. Once we've dealt with that, _I'll _decide how we're going to get Dick and Hummer back. As your commanding officer, that's my final word on this."

"Pulling rank, Dayton?" Ryan asked, eyebrow cocked. "Remember? I'm retired. Hell, we're _all_ retired!"

"This isn't a democracy, Ryan. _I'm_ in charge. Be a man, and suck it up!"

Ryan scoffed loudly. "_Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen_," he quoted.  
"Winston Churchill," Dayton confirmed after a moment. "How about this one, Paddy? '_Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way_.'"

"Hmm, gotta be either John Wayne or General Patton," Ryan shrugged. "Either way, it's very _you_."

"Patton. And I'm glad you see it that way," Dayton nodded coolly.

"Hey, I know you well enough by now," Ryan rejoined. "Here's another: '_If everyone is thinking alike, then someone isn't thinking_.'" He paused to let it sink in. "That was Patton, too. You might want to give _that_ some thought, Duke."

"_Paddy_ . . ." Dayton growled.

"Just think about it, you stubborn git," Ryan replied, interlinking his fingers as he rested his hands on his chest. "The Earth we're going back to is _not_ the Earth we left. If you think it is, then you're either being idealistic, or idiotic. Oh, wait . . ." He popped his eyes in mock surprise.

"Oh, great. Why don't you wave a red flag in front of a bull, Paddy?" Porter said irritably.

"An idealist or an idiot, huh? Well, thanks _one hell_ of a lot for that, Ryan," Dayton scoffed, leaning forward and jabbing a finger into Ryan's chest. "And I guess I know which one _you'd_ accuse _me_ of."

"Well, the Mark Dayton that I've known for thirty years is no dummy," Ryan replied with a faint smile, leaning into Dayton's finger, and slowly standing until he was right in the man's face. "You can't go _back_, Mark. We can go to _Earth_, but we can't go back to what we left behind. Your wife, your kids, your life. I know you want it to be the same." His voice rose with fervour. "Christ's sake, _I_ want it to be! You think I'm not chewing my guts out, wondering? Worrying? What about my kids? My brothers and sisters? And Mom? Hell, I even think about my ex, and that's without booze on board!" He rolled his eyes. "Jaysus Murphy, are they still alive? Are they okay? Would I be able to . . .would they even _want_ me to . . . " He stopped, letting out a ragged breath and turning away from them, in a rare moment of loss of control. He clenched his fists, standing stock-still for a long moment, before letting out a low groan.

"Paddy . . ." Dayton said uncertainly, raising a hand, and hesitating. In a motion that mimicked Starbuck's earlier, the man shot his hands up, forestalling any advance or offer of comfort on anyone's part. For a solid minute, the only sound in the room was his uneven breathing.

Finally, Ryan turned to face them again. "Me again," he apologized, shrugging. "We _all_ want it, Mark, but it isn't going to be. It _can't_ be. You know that, don't you?" He paused, searching his friend's features. "_Don't_ you?"

"_Damn_ you, Ryan," Dayton muttered gruffly. "I'm in _command_. It's not that easy."

"Sure it is," Ryan replied. "You just need to remember your priorities. Your _first_ allegiance."

Dayton blew out a breath of frustration. Ryan wouldn't budge on this. He'd argue until the cows came home . . . It was possible they'd never see eye to eye on this one.

"Now, now, boys," Baker reminded them, glancing at his timepiece. "Preparations for shipping out. Remember, Commander? T-Minus, and all that technical astronaut jazz?"

It took Dayton a moment longer to get past Ryan's outburst, and the words that had struck just a little too close to home. "Yeah," he breathed.

_Beep!!_

"What now?!" Dayton snapped in the door's direction, annoyed at the intrusion. He slammed a hand against the entry pad, waiting irritably for it to open. It slid back, revealing his wayward strike captain.

Starbuck stepped into the room, giving the assembled men a cursory glance, and nodding at them in acknowledgment. He turned to his commander, looking as serious as Ryan had a minute before. "I need to talk to you, Dayton."

"Peachy."


	8. Chapter One: Part Seven

There were many faces to Commander Mark Dayton that Starbuck had seen since first meeting the man. Fiercely devoted to his Earth friends, Dayton had also adopted an intimate circle of Colonials that he likewise took under his wing in an almost paternal role. Starbuck had certainly experienced that himself, occasionally wondering how they had fallen into the often confrontational relationship that Apollo and Luana had both remarked made them seem more like father and son, than merely friends or fellow officers. Ama had once mentioned that their similarities in nature had made it a natural fit, and that since they'd both been bereft of family for deca-yahrens, that they had unofficially adopted one another after their life or death introduction on Torg's asteroid base . . . which of course sounded like emotional claptrap to him.

Right now, Dayton was pure commanding officer, his scathing gaze raking over Starbuck with enough voltons to incinerate a lesser man. With a _hiss_, the door slid shut behind Ryan, Baker and Porter, leaving the two officers alone. Instinctively, Starbuck stood alert, like a shiny new cadet on inspection, facing the Academy Commander, about to turn him into raw protein.

"You owe me an explanation, _Captain_," Dayton told him quietly, taking a seat on the edge of his desk, and folding his arms over his chest. "Not only did you fail in your duty, leaving me to find another pilot to get back here, but you ran off half-cocked like some pimply-faced teenager having a temper tantrum."

"Ironic," Starbuck returned after a few microns. After finally talking to Chameleon about his memories of his mother's last night, that outburst on the _Galactica_ in front of Dayton and Apollo now seemed so distant and inconsequential. Especially since the catalyst for his outburst was the very reason he was here now. Reaching into his flight jacket, he pulled out a data pad. He tossed it at Dayton, smiling slightly as the man started, before clumsily catching it. Apparently, he was unaccustomed to his subordinate officers pelting him with electronic felgercarb. "And here _I _was going to demand an explanation from _you_."

"What's this?" Dayton murmured, activating the handheld device and glancing at it. His brows were furrowed as he looked it over, then they shot up in surprise as he realized what it was. "Where did you get this?" his voice going from frosty to ice planet. Then, just as abruptly: "_Malus_."

"What did you expect? Generally, I can't turn around without bumping into him," Starbuck returned. "I asked him how it was going, and he told me. As far as Malus is concerned, what crosses your desk, crosses mine, Dayton."

"This was _classified_," Dayton returned, his voice brittle, dropping the data pad on his desk. "That . . . transistorised hat-rack . . . I'll . . ."

"So demote him to Cylon, second-class, Commander," Starbuck retorted. "I _am_ the strike captain. That was good enough for Mal."

"Don't take that tone with _me_, Captain. I'm still your superior officer," Dayton snapped, rising from the desk to stand before the younger man.

"And you didn't think this was worth mentioning to your command staff, _Commander_?" Starbuck shot back. "You told Commander Adama that the Clavis was functional!"

"And it is," Dayton replied. "We transited, as predicted."

"Really?" Starbuck drawled. "Then why did Malus conclude that there was only a thirty-seven percent probability that it would get us back to the Fleet again?"

"Let me remind you of our objective, Captain. We're assigned to locating the _Ravager,_ and blowing her to hell. Our _priority_ is making sure there's an Earth for the Fleet to find, when they get there."

"And, of course, to _you_ it doesn't much matter if we can get back or not," Starbuck charged him. "That sort of triviality would really only interest the Colonial contingent of this crew!"

"That's a load of . . .!"

With fury in his eyes, Dayton grabbed the warrior with both fists by his tunic. However, knowing his commander, Starbuck was ready for it. He slammed his own arms upwards between Dayton's then outwards, freeing himself from Dayton's grip, before giving the man a powerful shove, separating them.

Dayton stumbled backwards, hesitating as he sized up Starbuck.

"You don't want to take _me_ on, Old Man." Starbuck promised, his body tense and ready for anything in the face of Dayton's betrayal. "I'll take you apart, and deal with the consequences later."

In that moment, Dayton believed him. He blew out a forceful breath, gruffly running a hand over his face, as he took another step back. "_Shit_ . . . I don't want to fight you, kid. There's too much water under the bridge for that."

Starbuck faltered, shaking his head at him in confusion. "_Water_? What the frack are you talking about, Dayton?"

Dayton sniffed in sudden amusement, turning to pour them both a drink from the flask that Baker had left opened on his desk. "It means we've been through too much, _Demitasse_." He turned around, offering Starbuck a glass of Ryan's asteroid whiskey. "Take it. It'll put hair on your chest."

Starbuck tightened his fingers around the glass that was pressed insistently into his hand, feeling a little off balance at the abrupt change in the man that was known for his "short fuse", as his friends called it. After all, a few sectars ago, the two of them would have already come to blows by now. "Come again?"

"Just an old saying," Dayton added. "I suppose right now that as far as you're concerned, I must look like some selfish Earthman who just wants to get home, damn the consequences."

Starbuck nodded slowly. It had taken him right back to the time when Dayton had first joined the Fleet. He was sure then that the Earthman had intentionally put the _Galactica_ and her crew at risk of being blown to Hades hole, deciding he didn't necessarily want this particular branch of humanity arriving at Earth with the Cylons on their tails. Then, just in time, John from the Ship of Lights had intervened.

"My own fault, I suppose, for not discussing it with you and Apollo . . . and for assuming that your lap-Cyborg would actually leave you out of the loop on this," Dayton considered. "I've given this a lot of thought, Starbuck." He walked around his desk and settled back into his chair, motioning for the young warrior to do the same. "Sit down. We obviously need to talk about this."

Instead, Starbuck moved forward, perching on the edge of the desk where Dayton had been a few moments before. It gave him a slight advantage, as he looked down at his CO.

Dayton smiled slightly, then shrugged. "Suit yourself."

From Dayton's eyes, he could see that the other understood and appreciated his thinking. "I usually do," Starbuck agreed, nodding at the man. "Go ahead. Talk."

"Look, kid, what I said in that command meeting, I meant. After all that we've been through since we got out of Torg's hellhole, I really believe that the Fleet is_ meant _to go to Earth. Believe me, I've done a one-eighty. There just has to be some kind of . . . _greater_ purpose to all of this. Maybe it sounds a little idealistic, but I have faith that it's all going to work out. That Malus _will_ find a way to get us back, if we're meant to get back. Provided I don't decide to use his head for a lava lamp, that is."

Starbuck groaned aloud, ignoring the quip, unable to believe his ears. "Oh, _frack_, Dayton . . ." he murmured. "You want me to put an entire crew of Colonial Warriors in jeopardy based on . . . _faith_? What happens if the Clavis doesn't even get us to Earth? What if it leaves us somewhere else entirely? Sagan's sake, what if we end up in some other completely different dimension again? Where there's an entire _planet_ of Baltars!" He shuddered, realizing he sounded slightly hysterical, but the sudden image was almost too much to bear. He took a sip of his drink, feeling the toxic whiskey burn a fiery path down his throat. It stole his breath for a moment, and probably instantly incinerated about a million brain cells, but at least the infinite Baltars went up in smoke with them.

"A planet of Baltars, huh?" Dayton smirked. "I think you might be getting just a _little_ carried away here, Starbuck. The ole conscience is going to drive you crazy, if you don't let this one go, kid."

Starbuck took another slug of whiskey. Dayton had been surprisingly conciliatory when he'd admitted a few days before that he had not prevented Baltar from going back to Morlais with Eirys, and that he couldn't in all good conscience just shoot the couple, after all they'd been through together to liberate the Angylions.

"Malus has every reason to believe we'll arrive in Earth's star system," Dayton added optimistically. "He hasn't been wrong, yet."

"Seventy-four point six percent probability," Starbuck returned. "Those are great odds for a card game, Dayton, but it's a little different when we're talking about _lives_."

"And what were the odds that you would even escape the Colonies, after the Cylons gave 'em a nuclear enema, huh? Or that you'd survive Carillon? Or get off Planet 'P' alive? I could go on, kid, but what I really want you to think about is how likely is it that Earth will survive if we don't do something about that Cylon Base Ship? Huh?" Dayton countered, setting his glass down on the desk. "I'm talking about seven _billion_ human lives. Apart from our little ragtag Fleet, Earth is the last known bastion of humanity in the universe, son. Look, for you, home is an ash heap a zillion light-years behind us. For me, it's still a going concern, and I want to keep it that way." He took a sip. "Believe me, I understand that it's difficult to think of them in terms of your brethren. But one thing that I've truly realized since joining this Fleet is that we're all really in this together. Earth just doesn't realize it yet."

Starbuck absorbed that for a moment. Admittedly, he tended to think of Earth more in terms of a destination than another branch of humanity. After all, to him it had been folklore . . . when he'd been aware of it at all. It had never held any actual reality for him, until he'd met Dayton.

"We're warriors, Starbuck. Soldiers. Our _raison __d'être _is taking risks. We gave the powers that be a blank cheque when we signed up, payable in blood, if needs be. I can never forget that. We're here to make this ugly ole universe a safer place for the civilians. For our children. For _their_ children." Dayton winced slightly, realizing his tactlessness. "Sorry . . . but that's what we do."

Starbuck waved a hand as nonchalantly as he could manage, considering all he and Lu had been through recently. "Never mind that. Why didn't you tell Commander Adama in the meeting?" Starbuck asked.

"And force him to sign off on a mission that might very well mean he'd never see his son again?" Dayton asked. "I have too much respect for him as a father and a man to do that. He'll figure it out eventually, when he finally gets through Malus' report. He'll realize the risks we took. Hell, I know he lost one son at that so-called Peace Conference. And every time Apollo goes out, I'll bet it kicks him in the gut all over again. I don't want to throw gas on _that_ fire. At least this way he won't be carrying any guilt around with him over it. It'll all be on _my_ head, and as commanding officer of the _Endeavour_, that's exactly where it belongs."

Starbuck nodded, gazing into the amber depths of his whiskey for a moment. Dayton was right. It _was_ their job to take those kinds of risks. However, as third in command of the Covert Operations Ship, he should have _known_ about it. So should have Apollo.

"From this ship's inception, and the time you were given command, " Starbuck began, setting his glass down on the desk, "we decided that the command structure would be such that you, Apollo and I would be involved in the big decisions together, Dayton. This isn't the _Pegasus. _ It's not a one man show." Dayton frowned. While having Starbuck and Apollo to back him up at the outset was a nice security blanket, there were times when it would definitely cramp the Earthman's style, especially considering his streak of independence. "I know you think that you're taking some kind of additional burden on yourself by making this decision alone, but frankly, that's a load of felgercarb, Old Man."

"Hey, now . . ." Dayton began to protest.

Starbuck raised a hand to curtail the words, and then leaned over, picking up Dayton's glass and pressing it into the commander's hand. "Have a drink and listen, Dayton. It's _my_ turn now."

Dayton sighed, loudly.

"I know you have your own way of doing things. And to a certain extent I understand where this is coming from. You're used to bearing the burden of command alone, and your executive officer and strike captain _are_ young enough to be your _grand_children . . ."

"Ow! Now that just _hurts_!" Dayton objected with a pained look.

". . .but you have to understand that our Nation has been at war for a _thousand_ yahrens. I wasn't raised wondering what I would do when I grew up. I _knew_," Starbuck explained. "All twelve Colonies had a regularized six sectar long military training period that was mandatory after graduating public school. A huge percentage of those conscripted went on afterwards to extend that term into a career, just like I did. I've seen some of your Earth movies, and it's hard to wrap my brain around a society whose youth spends all their time thinking about fast cars, goofing off, drinking and partying. Where responsibility is a burden to be deferred as long as possible, not an inevitability."

"Oh, man, I just knew that making you watch _Animal House_ was a mistake. . ." Dayton sighed.

"_We_ were at war, Dayton. We partied to celebrate that we were still alive. We drank to forget that yesterday's bunkmates had just been incinerated by a Cylon patrol. Our fraternities were squadrons, our fast cars were Vipers, and it wasn't about who could go faster, it was about who could outmanoeuvre the enemy in combat. Compared to your culture, we grew up fast in the Colonies. Damned fast. Some . . . faster than others. I might be a kid to _you_, but I've commanded patrols for yahrens. Along with Apollo, I've been assigned to _every_ high-risk mission on the _Galactica_, for a reason. You might think that somehow I've scammed my way into being the _Endeavour_'s strike captain, but I deserved that promotion. I've paid my dues to get here."

Dayton considered him for a long moment before nodding. He set his glass down on the desk and stood up. "You're right. To a certain extent, I'm used to being the lone wolf. I didn't have a lot of choice, really. But I need to make this clear; this was _never_ about a lack of respect for you or Apollo, Starbuck."

Starbuck raised his eyebrows, sceptically.

Dayton smiled ruefully. "It was more about a pigheaded commander who lost sight of what this command structure was supposed to emulate."

"Now_ that _I can accept." Starbuck smirked.

"One more thing," Dayton added. "'Kid' is sort of an . . .an _affectionate_ term, at least in my books. It was never meant to undermine you."

"What about _Demitasse_? And _Barista Boy_? And _Half-Caff_?" Starbuck asked, tongue-in-cheek.

Dayton chuckled. "_All_ affectionate terms, _Machiato Man_."

"A guy can only take so much affection, Old Man . . ." Starbuck replied, shaking his head in amusement at the other. "My skin is pretty thick, Dayton. It takes more than a few nicknames . . ." He shrugged it off.

"I know," the commander nodded. "So where does that leave us?"

"First of all, we bring in Apollo and you brief him on Malus' report. He needs to know that we might not make it back . . . that we might not even make it _there_. Agreed?"

"Fair enough," Dayton nodded. "Then?"

"Well, since all the arguments about _our _safety don't amount to much if the Cylons destroy Earth," Starbuck offered, "I suppose the objective outweighs the risks. You're right. We signed on for this. Risk _is_ an occupational hazard." He shrugged slightly. "I suppose my . . . _anger_ at you holding back Mal's report, made me lose sight of that."

Dayton breathed out a breath of relief. "Kid . . ." he smiled slightly as Starbuck raised his eyebrows. "Starbuck."

The strike captain shrugged. As much as he liked giving Dayton a hard time, it truly didn't matter.

"I don't know if you understand this, but . . . this chance . . . this mission . . . well, it's going to not only take me home to Earth, but it's going to give me the opportunity to potentially save my home planet from complete destruction." Dayton paused, suddenly and conspicuously quiet as he cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. "That's damn powerful considering I've been away for thirty years."

"I know that, Dayton."

"No . . ." the commander shook his head. "You don't."

"Come again?"

"Look, I'm no lap-Cylon," Dayton professed, "but if it hadn't been for you . . . flying your insubordinate ass into that pirate base eight months ago, and everything you've done for us since then . . ."

Starbuck grinned, crossing his arms over his chest, and leaning back slightly from where he was still perched on the desk. "I can't tell you how much I'm enjoying _this_ . . ."

Dayton frowned at him, his generous speech instantly curtailed. "You're a pain in the ass. You know that, don't you?"

"Ah, now that's better!" Starbuck chuckled. "Abuse me all you want. It's the gratitude I can't stand."

Dayton smirked, holding out his hand.

In the Earth tradition, Starbuck gripped it.

"Get your lazy ass back to work, Captain. We have a date with a Cylon Base Ship," Dayton told him after a moment, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. "And I have no desire to be late."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Captain?"

Starbuck turned back.

"Inform all gun crews, there will be a battle stations drill in five centons. All damage control and fire crews will likewise participate." Dayton snorted. "Better tell our resident Bubble-Head, too. I want him plugged into the ship's mainframe for the drills."

"Yes, Commander. Anything else?"

"Nothing that can't wait until after we get back. _If_ we get back."

"Oh?" Starbuck asked, pausing as the door opened.

"We have a date in the gym, _stripling._ You're going to take me apart, remember?" Dayton grinned, the challenge shining from his grey eyes.

"_Ah_ . . . and fortunately, you have your own top notch med tech to put you back together again," Starbuck returned wryly, as he rounded the corner into the corridor to the roar of Dayton's laughter.


	9. Chapter One: Part Eight

"Can I?" Baker asked eagerly, at the final sound of the warning klaxon indicating the Clavis was about to be activated. "Can I really?"

Dayton rolled his eyes, shaking his head, and glancing over at Ryan and Porter. The levity in the Control Centre was welcome, especially considering the stress that the _Endeavour_'s command staff was under. Would Malus' calculations and predictions about the Clavis prove to be accurate? Would they arrive safely at their programmed destination? Or would they fail in their mission, possibly destroying the Covert Operations Ship, as well as leaving Earth to a fate worse than even Hollywood could imagine?

After Apollo had been brought fully up to speed on the situation, they had disengaged from the Fleet, and accelerated to maximum speed, leaving the Fleet behind. In moments, they would use the Clavis to open a portal that _should_ take them home to Earth. Dayton's guts twisted into knots, as he glanced at the young colonel. Apollo had been unimpressed, to say the least, that he'd been the last to know about the problems with the Espridian device. Much like Starbuck, he'd been outraged that Dayton had tried to keep the information to himself, and he hadn't hesitated to tell him so. Then again, Apollo had the most to lose if they didn't make it back. The woman he loved. A son. A father and sister. Friends and comrades he'd fought halfway across the galaxy with. It wasn't the first time that duty and personal fulfilment did battle in an officer's heart. In a way, Dayton couldn't blame the guy. He knew _he'd _be stewed, if he'd been in Apollo's place. Hell, he _had, _more times than he cared to remember. _You ain't the first soldier ever to get screwed by the brass, Apollo. _

Only now, Dayton _was_ the brass. And he knew that, unpleasant as it might be, he was totally, absolutely right in doing what he'd done, in his own unbiased opinion. The problem being, of course, he'd been found out. So, in one way, only at Starbuck's insistence was the colonel stewing in his own juices, and there wasn't much anybody else could do about it.

He looked from the colonel, to the main screen. According to the engineering readouts, the ship's drive field was approaching optimum configuration for the Clavis' operation, according to Malus' computations. It was falling in line with the IL's sims like a hand in glove. The _Endeavour_'s power utilization curve, now closer to Colonial norms than Cylon ones, was within a hair's breadth of where it was supposed to be.

"Activate deflection grid," ordered Dayton. "Full power."

"Deflection grid on-line," replied Coxcoxtli. Dayton watched as the grid enveloped the ship. According to Malus' calculations, the deflector shields were an integral part of getting the alien device to do what they wanted it to. He smiled, as the engineering readouts reached nominal status.

"Coxcoxtli? Distance from Fleet?"

"Passing one light-yahren . . . now."

"Excellent. Captain Dorado, seal all compartments. Damage control teams on stand-by. All decks on fire alert."

"Compartments sealing, sir. Damage control teams report on standby. Fire alert all decks."

"Very good. Malus, all scanners to maximum, all recorders on."

"All activated," replied the IL.

"Commander," said Cadet Sagaris, "now approaching one and one-half light-yahrens from the Fleet."

"Very good. Steady as she goes, helm. Activate Clavis."

"Clavis activated," replied Coxcoxtli. "Forty percent . . . sixty . . . eighty . . . Clavis now at one-hundred percent power, Commander."

"Go ahead, Baker," Dayton nodded. Maybe he was being overprotective, but he just didn't want his friends knowing that if something went wrong, that the next few minutes might be their last. Instead, he'd purposely tried to lighten the mood, especially after his recent confrontation with men that he'd considered as brothers for thirty years. "You'll love it."

Meanwhile, somewhere on the ship, he knew that Starbuck was with Luana, also anxiously waiting. Briefly, Dayton said a silent prayer that their countermeasure to Iblis' last, but more effective strategy would stand a chance. If John was listening, maybe he'd pass along his two cents to the Big Guy.

Baker giggled like a child, pointing a theatrical finger at Coxcoxtli, manning the Clavis control station. "Energize!" he ordered.


	10. Chapter Two: Part One

Chapter Two

"Holy frack!"

Starbuck let out the breath that he abruptly realized he was holding, as his head slowly stopped spinning, and his equilibrium began to return. Sagan's sake, using the Clavis to travel through time and space was like drinking a dozen Empyrean ales too many, and then following it up with a line of ambrosa shooters . . . or maybe a few shots of asteroid whiskey.

Or both.

He shot up out of his chair in the Duty Office, taking a step forward to reach for the telecom. Yeah, they'd apparently made it through the whatever-it-was in one piece, but he still didn't know where exactly they'd make it _to_. Then abruptly, his vision blurred, and the _Endeavour_ flipped over.

"_Starbuck_?"

Luana's voice called him back from the mist of blanketing greyness that covered him. When he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him in concern. It was a welcome change from the night before. Jolly and Lia were leaning over her shoulder, looking a little too amused for Starbuck's liking.

"What the bloody Hades hole . . ." Starbuck muttered, as between them, they pulled him into a sitting position. He rubbed the back of his head, where he'd apparently landed when he dropped to the deck like a hundred-kilon tylinium weight.

Jolly chuckled. "The last time we energized, about ten percent of the crew were light-headed afterwards, Captain. A few passed out cold. Remember?"

"Uh . . .no." He tried to stand, but the room suddenly banked to the left, and his astrum impacted with the deck. "I, uh . . .I think maybe I was unconscious, at the time."

"Yeah, he's okay again," said Jolly, laughing softly. "A lot of guys _did_ pass out last time, though."

"Starbuck did too, he's not kidding," Luana reminded them. "Although, I suppose we thought it had more to do with Eirys and the Oculus at the time."

"Guess we were wrong," Lia added cheerfully.

"Just _great_ . . ." Starbuck groused. Third in command of the _Endeavour_, and he became giddy when his Base Ship energized. Okay, it was weird, mysteriously obscure alien technology, but still . . . "If any of you tell Dayton, I _swear_ I'll have you seconded to Waste Recycling Management when we get back."

"An empty threat, if I ever heard one," Lu grinned at Jolly and Lia, as she sniffed theatrically. "How do you like my new perfume? I call it _Excreta_."

"Oh mong!" Jolly enthused. "It's just . . . wonderful. Takes me back to those carefree days of my youth. In the dairy barns, on the Agro tracts!"

"Perfect for those romantic occasions with your husband." Lia winked at her sister. Lu's smile lost some of its radiance.

"Ups-a-daisy," Jolly said, gripping Starbuck's arm and hoisting him to his feet. "Okay now?"

Starbuck sucked in a deep breath, feeling himself weave slightly. "Lords . . ." He clutched Jolly's arm like a lifeline. "Get me to the telecom, will you?"

"Aye, Captain," Jolly chuckled, draping the warrior's arm over his shoulder, and supporting him.

Microns later, Starbuck's equilibrium was beginning to return. With a grateful nod at the others, he punched in the code for the Control Centre. "Control Centre? This is Captain Starbuck. Where are we?"

"Stand by, Captain," Cadet Pierus told him.

Starbuck blew out an impatient breath, as he felt the others' eyes on him. Lu looked a little suspicious. Leave it to _her_ to realize his anxiety. He pasted his trademark smile on, seeing them all relax under its power. "I have a bet with Dayton about how close to Sedna he could get us," he professed. In a milli-centon, he realized that he was misleading them to spare their anxiety, just as Dayton had done with him and Apollo. The difference being, Starbuck would get away with it.

"You never change," Jolly chuckled, shaking his head, and draping an arm around Lia.

"Some things in the universe are immutable, Jolly," Starbuck grinned and shrugged, while on the inside his stomach was churning. Then the telecom crackled to life.

"Dayton here. We're smack in the middle of where we wanted to be, give or take a smidge or an iota. Possibly an Astronomical Unit, or two. Officially, that will put us in Sedna's orbit. Soon."

Starbuck grinned. "Well, thank the Lords for that. Congratulations, Commander."

"Congratulations to us all," Dayton replied. "Get your tail up here, Captain. I have a solar system I'd like you to meet."

"Yes, sir."


	11. Chapter Two: Part Two

Far, far away, in orbit around a dead planet circling a star known to Earth astronomers as Delta Pavonis, the Cylon _Abaddon_-class Base Ship _Ravager_sat. Listening. Watching. Waiting. Waiting, as she had waited for many long, long yahrens.

Commander Syphax, IL Series Cylon, entered the Command Centre, as he had for the last forty-one thousand, nine-hundred-sixty-six days, and crossed the room to his elevated seat. Positioning himself, he sat down, flicking away a fold of his robe almost theatrically.

"Report, Centurion," he ordered.

"By-your-command. All-scans-and-patrols-report-complete-success. All-sentient-life-in-this-system-has-been-destroyed. All-has-been-claimed-by-the-Cylon Alliance-in-the-name-of-the-Imperious-Leader."

"Excellent, Centurion," replied Syphax. "Excellent." The IL plugged himself into the ship's systems, and rejoiced as he reviewed the data. When first detected, the planet below, third from this star, had supported a sentient race of beings, amphibioid in nature, at approximately the Fourth-Fifth Millennium transition period of their development. Horrific, sustained barrages by the _Ravager'_s Mega-Pulsars, as well as "dirty" pluton weapons and massive orbital bombardment by highly concentrated piiglin nerve gas bombs had reduced the population from over two hundred million, to zero, in under two days. Syphax privately celebrated his success, momentarily annoyed that there was no one there to recognize it for what it was. He watched the fires, some continent-wide, filling the atmosphere with ever more pollution and toxins. What had once been the closest thing this race had to cities, were now molten craters. Once rich oceans were now vast, radioactive cesspools of death. Once more, another superfluous and inferior life-form had been eradicated from the universe. The Imperious Leader's orders had been carried out. Now, as soon as the last of the shuttles arrived carrying raw tylium for processing into fuel—discovered on one of this system's other planets—they could move on to complete the mission assigned to them so long ago by the Imperious Leader himself, the mission for which Syphax had specifically been created. They had finally received the signal foretold to him over a centi-yahren before.

"By-your-command," said another centurion.

"Speak."

"Our-last-patrol-craft-is-aboard. All-fighters-ready-for-lightspeed."

"Excellent, Centurion. As soon as the fuelling . . ."

_Beep._

"Hmm . . . How interesting," decided Syphax, as new data was input into his system. He accessed the ship's navigational charts. A signal. Ahead of them. He did some calculations. While too short-lived to get much detail on its precise position, it appeared that some kind of spatial distortion had occurred somewhere along the path they were exploring. He waited patiently, all of 3.67 millicentons, while the computer processed the incoming data. Whatever it was appeared artificial. _Engineered._ Perhaps . . . perhaps.

"By-your-command. Fuelling-shuttle-is-aboard. Offloading-of-fuel-ore-for processing-will-be-complete in-fourteen-centons."

"Excellent. As soon as offloading is complete, lay in a course for our next destination. Flank speed, Centurion."

"By-your-command."

Within minutes, the _Ravager_ began to move away from the murdered planet, slowly gaining speed, as she came to a new course. Then, in a blur, she ripped a hole in space, and the dead world was once more alone in the darkness.

xxxxx

Even after over twenty years of knowing that this day would inevitably come, Sergei Orlov still couldn't believe his eyes, as the "IL series cyborg" debarked the _Quest_at the Baikonur Space Centre in Kazakhstan, and was instantly surrounded by several WASA security guards. An unseemly boyish excitement battled with a cold shot of reality, as Sergei realized that he was finally facing the very first "verifiable" Cylon on Earth. Retrieved from a wrecked Cylon fighter on the moon three months before, along with the remains of a couple lower class soldiers known, curiously, as _centurions_, the Cylon had been confined to the Armstrong Lunar Outpost while WASA had discussed and negotiated with various world governments, while offering various news media conclusive proof that a Cylon threat really did exist. Along with the downed craft, they had recovered pieces of debris from a much larger vessel, both on the lunar surface and in space, which they were informed, had belonged to the downed machine's mothership. While much of it was badly damaged, analysis of the wreckage was nevertheless ongoing. What they had so far was . . . astounding! Incredibly, radically advanced.

It turned out to be nothing less than a huge, massive warship!

In the end, those at WASA had been extremely reluctant to bring this mechanical being from another star system to Earth at all. In fact, they had debated strongly over instead destroying it. But for over a century, there had already been too much deception, too many lies.

"I am Sergei Orlov, Executive Director of the _Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency_," Sergei nodded, nervously running a hand through his greying hair. "You are . . . Lucifer?"

"Yes," the IL bowed his head slightly. As it spoke, the cyborg's "lips" flashed in sync with the words. Its "eyes" also oscillated back and forth, which Orlov found disturbing. The robot's voice was amazingly, even disturbingly humanlike. Suave and urbane, he enunciated like a practiced orator or actor. "I am Commander Lucifer, IL Group Cylon, IL Series Number IL-6475836254785/HGDJ-373764 of the Cylon Alliance, Executive Director Orlov. I have come a long, long way to bring tidings from our Imperious Leader and to bid you _peace_, my friend."

Orlov cleared his throat. The Guardians had told them otherwise. "Welcome to Earth, Commander Lucifer."

"I am _most_pleased to be here," replied the IL.

xxxxx

"In a minute," said the man behind the desk, as the holographic teleconference connection came on-line and suddenly it was as if Mason was standing there in the Oval Office, almost a thousand miles away. A few moments later the President closed a folder, and slowly looked up. Dark brown hair, greying at the temples, blue eyes, chiselled chin . . . the face _might_ have won half the votes in America, but his political record had won the rest. Unfortunately, he was proving to be less malleable than Mason's people had expected. "My office has been getting some . . . complaints from that WASA woman, again, Mason," President Gibson told him. His tone wasn't very understanding. "Let me get this straight. You attacked one of her space ships?" he asked astringently.

"Counterterrorism, Mr. President," Mason calmly replied, as if ordering a sandwich. He lit up a cigarette, ignoring the glance of disapproval directed his way. "If that woman ever has the courage to set foot on American soil again, I'll personally escort her to a cell, and throw away the key."

"What kind of terrorism are we talking about, Mason?"

"Endangering the National Security of the United States of America, Mr. President." He took a drag of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke. "We've confiscated their ship. The intelligence they've collected will be reviewed, and dealt with appropriately. Their crew is being held for questioning, of course."

"I see."

"These people will stop at nothing to further their own agenda. Trying to drive irrational fear into the hearts and minds of average, hardworking people. Not just American citizens, but people all over the world . . ." Mason snorted in disgust.

"I'm familiar with the speech, Mason. If I recall correctly, I used it in my election campaign. Several times. Still, that's a bit thin, isn't it? Technically, she's broken no laws, remember. 'Irrational fears' is hardly something we could charge someone with, or so the Attorney General tells me."

"As you well know, the Patriot Act empowers us to bring them into custody if we suspect terrorist related acts."

"Talking about aliens and such hardly comes up to the level of a terrorist act," said Gibson.

"They used Anti-satellite technology, Mr. President! Something new, something _we_ don't yet have! A pilot had to be fished out of the Atlantic Ocean! Besides, irrational fears can lead to a distrust in government, and a loss of support. The next thing you know we have a few more conspiracy ding-dongs,_and_ theories, as if we don't have enough already. And _that_can lead to a whole host of other problems." His voice dropped a bit. "Actual conspiracies, Mr. President. Attempted coups. Don't forget one of your predecessors."

"I haven't," said Gibson, recalling the 2013 accident that had led to the President almost dying, and having to step down. Even today, there was some doubts that it had, after all, truly been an "accident".

"I'm just saying . . ."

"I think I _know_ what you're saying, Director." His hand hovered impatiently over the switch that kept them connected. "Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir, Mr. President," said the other, and the Oval Office faded around him, returning him to the reality of the Kennedy Air Force Base.

xxxxx

"Commander," said Athena on the _Galactica_'s bridge, glancing up at him when he didn't respond. "Father?"

"Yes?" He tore his eyes away from the Clavis report by Malus, which Dayton had given him, as a growing unease enveloped him. He had the worst feeling that he was about to find out it was too late to stop them. Then again, it would have been a selfish act, and nothing more. "What is it?"

"The _Endeavour_has passed beyond scanner range, sir. According to the telemetry, she activated the alien device, as planned."

With a bitter look back at the report, Adama moved over, and studied the replay of the scans over her shoulder. The former Cylon vessel had accelerated to flank speed, leaving the Fleet in her wake. At a distance of 1.437 light-yahrens ahead, the energy readings went crazy, as the Clavis was activated, and the _Endeavour_transited into . . . the unknown. He could only pray that they'd arrive safely, and return the same way. As far as Dayton went, Adama didn't know whether to strip and module him, or to thank him. He might not get a chance to do either. He was beginning to wonder if he had another Cain on his hands. "No subsequent readings, Athena?"

"Nothing, sir. The space ahead of the Fleet reads as clear of any traffic or appreciable space bodies."

"Very well. May the Lords of Kobol guide them on their journey. Steady as she goes, helm."

"Steady as she goes, sir."

"Get me Commander Cain. I'll speak to him on the telecom in my office."

Athena looked up at that.

"Yes, sir."


	12. Chapter Two: Part Three

"Where the _hell_ are they?" Chief of Staff Roach demanded, spittle flying from his mouth as he grabbed Grae by the front of his flight suit. The United States general was definitely a "lifer", from his military haircut, through his pressed, immaculate, and decorated uniform, to his highly polished shoes.

The crew had been cooling their heels in the stockade for over an hour, as Roach's men poured over the _Unity_ with a fine toothcomb, looking for their prize. It had to be a bit like finding a winning lottery ticket, only to discover it had just become outdated.

"_Who,_exactly?" the astronaut returned, exceedingly politely. After all, there wasn't much he could do about it with his hands cuffed behind his back, and about ten huge guys with guns down the hall. He glanced at the nondescript, middle-aged guy in the suit who had entered with Roach. The man blended in to the background, like grey on grey. "By the way, General, I've been meaning to ask you . . . since we were in _neutral airspace_, and not breaking _any_international laws when you forced us down . . . _why_ exactly are we being detained by the US Air Farce? Oh, sorry. Canadian in-joke," he smiled, as the suit looked at him coolly. "After all, we are _supposed_ to be allies. Aren't we?" Grae smiled irritatingly, with a glance at his crew.

Taylor groaned aloud in the next cell, and rolled his eyes with that look that said, "You're just looking for trouble!"

"You're being detained under the Patriot Act," the suit inserted softly, cigarette smoke coiling around him, before slowly ascending towards the ceiling. "You understand?"

"You've got to be kidding!" Grae sputtered, before demanding, "Who are you?"

"Mason. DNI."

"National Intelligence? Is that right? An oxymoron, if I ever heard one, especially in _this_ crowd . . ."

Roach tightened his grip on the astronaut, his face beefy-red with fury. "You people! You seem to think this is some kind of game, don't you?" Silence. "Well, Major?" He leaned his head just a tiny bit closer to his prisoner, as if revving up the intimidation factor. Something that Roach had been famous for, and, admittedly, usually worked.

But not this time . . .

"Game?" Grae echoed in disbelief. "Hell, no! WASA's been telling people like you for a generation that the real enemy isn't in Iran, Pakistan or North Korea, or waiting to bomb Disneyland, it's out there!" He jerked his head upward symbolically, as if he could see through the thick walls and ceiling of the Kennedy Air Force Base's stockade, into the sky beyond. "We've put all our resources and energies into trying to resurrect the Space Program that _your_ bureaucrats all but shut down forty-odd years ago, and to develop it enough so that when the time comes, we might actually be able to defend our planet from a threat that makes international terrorists look like pussy cats on catnip. But it's beginning to look like we've run out of time, _General._ And instead of working _with_us, like you _told_ Director Dayton you would, you've attacked us, and commandeered our ship."

"You and your kind are just one more sect of conspiracy lunatics out to intimidate the people into subscribing to your particular brand of terrorism!" Roach spat, giving the astronaut a shake. "Only difference is you've managed to get the financial support of some very wealthy and powerful people . . ."

"It isn't too late to join up, General. You get a bonus years subscription to _Sports Illustrated_, along with the swimsuit edition. Operators are standing by," Grae adlibbed, as the Air Force officer let out a growl of anger, shoving him backwards. He hit the floor hard.

"Hey, now!" Taylor shouted from behind his cell.

"Where are these so-called _Cylons_?" Roach demanded, standing over him, fists clenched. "Are they still up at the Armstrong Lunar Outpost? Or was it all just another _lie_ to drum up more funding for your frivolous Mars Program?"

"No place safer for them than the moon, General, after all, if we just handed them over, more than likely they'd just disappear like at Roswell!" Grae replied, refusing to be cowed, and recovering his feet as quickly as he could in restraints. The Anti-satellite weaponry should have knocked out any trace of the_Quest_, as well as blinded most satellites in range, civilian _or_ military. Apparently, the Air Force was none the wiser that the _Quest_ had landed safely in Russia.

"Roswell!" the general scoffed, his disgust written on his features. "You people never let go, do you?"

"The Cylons are _real_, General! Their threat is real! We've sent you the files!" Grae shouted. "What kind of half-wit do you have to be to remain in denial! We've shown you enough evidence to prove the existence of God Almighty! But, oh no. You'll still be denying it when they start bombing!"

"You've actually seen them?" Roach asked dubiously, after a long look over his shoulder at Mason The other man rolled his eyes, his scepticism clear. "Face to face?"

"I've played cards with one," Grae returned. "Five card stud. Bastard beat me."

Roach studied him for a moment, then abruptly did an about-face. He strode through the door of the cell, ignoring the guards as he passed by. A moment later, he was joined by Mason, walking apace to keep up with the general's powerful stride.

"Prepare a flip to take us to Peterson. From there a car to Cheyenne," Roach ordered an officer.

"I don't think that's a good idea, General," Mason suggested. "I told you, I have Cheyenne taken care of."

"So you keep saying," Roach sneered. "My visit to Cheyenne is overdue, Director Mason."

"General, do you want all of the astronauts moved to Cheyenne, sir?" the officer asked.

"Only the major."

"Hey, Roach!" Grae hollered after them. "Do I have time for a combat dump before we go?"

The outer door of the stockade slammed shut with a resounding _clang_.

"Man, I am really sensing some hostility here."

xxxxx

"I appreciate you letting me know, Adama. I'm still wading through that gallmonging Cylon's report," Cain complained, dropping his computron reader onto his desk, in his quarters on the _Pegasus_. "If they actually make it, somebody had better teach Dayton's resident tin can to get to the point in less than three hundred and eight thousand, eight hundred and nine words."

"It was certainly a . . . _thorough_ report," Adama returned impartially.

"That's _one_ way of looking at it. Another is that Dayton was so blasted anxious to finally be able to get back home, that he directed Malus to hornswoggle us." Cain raised one eyebrow.

On the screen, Adama opened his mouth, apparently about to come to the Earthman's defence once again, and then just as abruptly closed it. The_Galactica_'s commander sighed heavily.

"Don't beat yourself up, Adama. You've been obsessing about your quest to find Earth for so long, that it isn't surprising Dayton could hoodwink you. Lords of Kobol, after that command meeting, even _I_ was beginning to buy into his rhetoric."

Adama raised his eyebrows. "Cain, I'm not exactly convinced about that. After all, he had the _Endeavour_and the Clavis once before, and returned as ordered. I believe . . ."

"He wasn't heading for Earth that time, old friend. Time will tell, won't it, Adama?" Cain waved an impatient hand at his old friend. After all the resources they'd committed to rebuilding that old Cylon Base Ship, only to have it commandeered by a man that the whole Fleet had become far too besotted with, in order to take him back to his home planet, obviously at _any_ cost . . . "In the meantime, I think we'd better make some provisions for the fact that the_Endeavour_ probably won't be back. Let's get back on track."

"What do you propose?"

"Well, it's time to let the _Pegasus_ get back to doing what we do best. A little reconnaissance, for starters. We destroyed one of their Base Ships back at Planet 'P', after all. They'll be out there looking for us. Now, I'm planning on taking . . ."

xxxxx

As the doors slid open, Starbuck saw the rest of the _Endeavour'_s "inner circle" gathered around the readouts, or looking at the main screen. Apollo, the Earthmen, and Dorado were glued to the images.

"What have we got?" asked Jolly, as they filed in. "Uh, sir."

"We have exited the Clavis Portal within 4.5% of our predicted position," reported Malus. "Commander?"

"Okay, Malus. Precise position, Coxcoxtli?"

"We are at present approximately . . ."

"Did I ask for _approximate_, Coxman?" Dayton inquired.

"Uh, no, sir. We are precisely 140.833 billion kilometrons from the system's primary, Commander."

"Thank you, Take us out of w . . . lightspeed, now. Deflection to full."

"Yes, Commander," replied the helmsman.

Starbuck watched as the graphic of the ship's drive field vanished, accompanied by the vibration that confirmed they had returned to "normal" space. Unlike human-built capital ships, Cylon vessels had never progressed beyond the old-fashioned telltale of dropping out of lightspeed. Maybe, as robots, they either didn't notice it, or didn't care.

Either way, they had arrived.

"Main screen on," ordered Dayton. "All scanners to maximum. ECM suite to full."

"Aye, sir," replied Coxcoxtli. As he manipulated the controls, they all stared into the void ahead. In the upper right quadrant of the screen was a bright dot.

"The sun," said Baker, and there was a note of longing in his voice. "Can you give us greater magnification?" Coxcoxtli replied in the affirmative, and the tiny dot swelled into a massive yellow ball.

"Spectral readings of the star are in a perfect 1-to-1 correlation with the data from your files on Earth's sun," reported Malus. "This is unquestionably your home system, gentlemen." The Earthmen cheered, slapping each other on the back and shoulders. Malus shook his head in bemusement. As an afterthought, he raised a hand, using his "hand" to scratch his "head", as he'd seen humans do.

"What?" asked Starbuck, smirking at the adopted affectation.

"Charming as it may be, I still have difficulty assimilating why humans act the way you do," the IL told him. "After all, getting here was the result of refined mathematics, precise navigation, and highly technical engineering. Why . . . _celebrate_ something so clinical?"

"Because they're _home_, Mal. We associate strong emotions with home."

"This is true," Malus replied, reminded of the strong hatred and utter contempt that most humans bore towards him, merely because he was a Cylon, and thus associated with those that had destroyed the Twelve Colonies of Mankind. A light flashed on the Clavis' control panel, and he moved over to the station.

"Sir," said Pierus. "Incoming signal detected."

"Source?"

"Earth, sir. It's very weak."

"Which in theory is why we're here," Ryan quipped.

"Thanks for clarifying that, Paddy," Dayton rolled his eyes at the other. "Put it on, Cadet." They waited as the young man worked the controls. Suddenly, the hiss spilled forth from the speakers, regaling them with . . .

" . . . _reports. . .__ar in Iran, and how__. . .__EU chairman__. . .__on Mars__. . .__errorist attc__. . .__sidential press conf_ . . . _is week, on Sixty Minutes__. . ."_

"Oh God," sighed Baker. "Is that thing still on?"

"I wonder how old Andy Rooney is now?" Porter tossed in.

"A hundred and thirty-odd," Ryan returned. "Should be nearing retirement soon."

Dayton scowled at him, and gave Pierus the cut-off sign. "Just record whatever you get. We'll look at it later."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll listen in, Mark," Porter told him, heading for the station. "After all, if the Cylons are already here, we might get some inkling from the media."

"Good idea. Cox?" asked Dayton. "Find Sedna yet?"

"Yes, Commander. The planet is . . . 10,344.67 kilometrons distant. Altering course."

"Good lad. On screen."

The sun vanished, to be replaced by a small dot of light. As the seconds ticked by, it grew larger, until it was clearly a spherical object, currently in a crescent phase relative to the _Endeavour_. As they drew closer, the small world's reddish colour became clear, as did numerous surface features. Moving around to the sunlit side, it became obvious how little sunlight there was at this distance.

"Quite an unremarkable world," observed Malus, running a diagnostic on the Espridian device. He hadn't observed readings like this before.

"You think so?" said Ryan, with a smile. "I think it's glorious."

"Diameter 1,154 of your miles. It is orbited by a small moon, approximately a quarter its size, and rotates once every six standard days. The planet consists of several unremarkable ores, has no molten core, no magnetic field, is approximately four hundred degrees below zero, and has a thin atmosphere, but I am not detecting any signs of life."

"What's its orbital period, Mal?" asked Dorado.

"Approximately 10, 500 Earth yahrens, Captain. We are, after all, a long way from the sun."

"Sure are," said Dayton. "Okay, Coxman? Put us into orbit."

"Sir."

They watched, as the ship slipped closer to the frigid world, until it filled a quarter of the screen. Barely had the instruments confirmed orbit attitude, when one of the scanners began bleeping. "Cox?"

"Scanners detecting an object in orbit ahead of us, Commander. It appears to be a primitive reconnaissance craft of some sort. There is a small nuclear-fuelled power source in operation. Very low level, however. I am not detecting any life signs."

"Is it scanning us?" Apollo asked.

"No, sir. I think it's dead."

"Let us know when you're sure, Cadet," Dorado told him quietly.

"I . . ." his fingers raced over the controls. "I'm sure, Captain."

"Good work. Full mag."

The screen shifted to the image of a small probe. Dayton and the others at once recognized the old NASA logo on the side.

"Looks like the _New Horizons_ probe they sent to Pluto, Mark," said Ryan.

"Sure does, Paddy." They zoomed in, scanning every tiny detail of the old probe. Dayton was surprised there was any appreciable energy left in the old plutonium-powered thermocouple.

"Wonder what she's doing here."

"Dunno. But that's not our problem. Cox, full scan of the entire system. Any and all signs of Cylon activity. I want to know where that Base Ship is."

"Sir."

"Starbuck, I want you to organize patrols. As far out as possible. We need extra eyes. Briefing in five min . . . centons."

"Yes, sir," he turned to go.

"Commander?" Malus inserted, his diagnostic complete. "It appears we have a potential complication with the Clavis. It is behaving rather . . . atypically."

Starbuck stopped in his tracks, looking back at the IL.

"How's that?" Dayton demanded.

"Instead of deactivating, as previously, after _energizing_, as you call it, its inner mechanism seems to be still consuming energy. The device's power source seems to be climbing of its own initiative."

"It's activating _itself_?" Apollo asked.

"Well, it has the _potential_ to activate itself when it reaches a hundred percent."

"How fast is it powering up?" Dorado asked, crossing to the station to see the graphic display.

"At this rate . . . I would have to approximate that we have three days before the Clavis reaches an optimum power level that will initiate opening another portal."

"Three days?" Dayton echoed hollowly.

"We could jettison it," Coxcoxtli suggested.

"Leaving us with no way to get back to the Fleet," Apollo reminded him. "Keep working on it, Malus."

"Of course, Colonel."

"In the meantime," Dayton glanced at Starbuck, "how many patrols can you put out there, Captain? How many are ready?"

"I have two full squadrons, Commander. Phoenix Squadron is on alert right now."

Dayton nodded, his eyes raking those assembled in the Control Centre. They settled briefly on Ryan. "Seems that we suddenly have a deadline. Five centons. War Room."

"Aye, Commander."


	13. Chapter Two: Part Four

"Both President Gibson and Prime Minister Webster's offices are . . . uh . . . 'taking our complaints under advisement', Director Dayton," Batalova reported in WASA's Guiana Space Centre, one hand to her earphone. She glanced at the digital display as it clicked over to 2346 hours. They'd wasted hours trying to go through proper channels. "Neither Gibson or Webster are available, at present. The late hour, they tell me."

"Why am I not surprised?" Jess let out a long breath. The American President and British Prime Minister usually didn't deign to return her calls at the best of times, which these certainly weren't. "Did you get a hold of my sister?"

"I'll try again, Director," Batalova replied. "She cut communications at our last brief contact."

Jess nodded soberly. A freelance journalist, Lauren Dayton had gained a fearless reputation in her earlier career while reporting on the "conflicts"—nobody had the balls to call them "wars" anymore—in Iran, Pakistan and North Korea. In the last five years, however, she had taken the post of media relations with WASA, which she had described as being as "tenuous and dangerous" as any of her former foreign correspondent jobs in the field, "but with far more cool toys". By and large, world opinion hadn't changed much since WASA's inception. While the space agency was recognized for its technological achievements, their mandate, largely self-given, of preparing Earth for an imminent attack against a race of mechanical beings known as the Cylons lumped them politically in with 9/11 Truth Group, Kennedy assassination radicals, people who monitored "chemtrails", those who believed in the New World Order, and the rest of the world's "conspiracy theorists".

_Please, let her be okay . . ._

"LM Dayton on line three, Director," Batalova abruptly announced, the relief in the operator's voice more than apparent.

"Lauren!" Jess cried. "You're okay!"

"I'm on the move, Jess! You wouldn't believe the traffic!" she sounded out of breath, the brief image up on the plasma from her Sat-Phone shaky and distorted, before she switched to whatever hands-free system she was using. Aside from the shoulder-length dark hair and the slight age difference, no one could mistake the two for anything but sisters. Honking horns and shouts in some unidentified Babel of languages filtered through in the back ground, while at the same time a dignified male voice with a lilting Irish accent was apparently giving her directions on what had to be her vehicle's GPS.

"_Turn right at the next intersection, please, me darlin'. Distance now twenty metres and increasing_."

From the current image relayed over her Sat, she seemed to be in a car, moving . . . who knew where. "Yeah, I know. Big surprise, Sis. All of the major networks are blowing me off like a tsetse fly in a cyclone, except that one guy, who never showed up." From her expression, it was clear Lauren had no illusions as to _why._

"_Begorrah! Proximity alert on the right!"_

The tires squealed and the engine accelerated. "Most of the Alternative News sites on the Net have picked it up. _Above Top Secret_. _Coalition of the Obvious_._Wake up and Smell the Coffee, America_. Meanwhile, some big, ugly guys are tailing me. You know, the kind with sunglasses and no necks. It seems that they want to take me out . . . and I don't mean for drinks!"

"_Shit_! They're tracking the chip on your phone! I can't _believe_ you didn't debug it!"

"I _did_ debug it!" her younger sister retorted with a snort. "I wasn't born yesterday you know, Jess. They've been watching me since you first told them about the Cylon. By the way, about an hour ago I . . .uh . . . a _friend_ sent me a shot of an Orbiter shuttle in one of the hangars at Edward's." Her tone shifted minutely as she addressed the GPS. "Seamus! Initiate!" There was a pause, and then her image came back on screen. "I'm uploading it now. Should be there in a flash. Process of elimination, Jess. It's really the _Endeavour_!" She was smiling triumphantly, then the image went askew. There was the sound of a loud _crack,__and she_gasped, then let out a sharp breath.

"LAUREN?"

"_Seamus, you idiot! Manual override!_ That's it! Next time I'm upgrading to the Formula One edition! No more cheap Microsoft knockoffs!" The tires squealed again. "Still here, Jess. Looks like the fresh guys are back. Trust me, next time, I'm skipping the three-cylinder electric, and going gas all the way! Something in an old V-8, me thinks." She had a penchant for rambling when she was stressed. "Okay, sis, bet your bottom dollar I'm going underground. I'll be in touch. Looks like _. . .Holy Crap_!_"_ The line abruptly went dead.

Jess hesitated as the Sat-Phone in her pocket vibrated. She pulled it out, activating it, and staring blankly at the image of the Space Shuttle _Endeavour_, miraculously returned to Earth forty-five years after it had left. It was true. It was really here. Banged up, scorched, and looking like she'd been ill taken care of, but she was here. So many unanswered questions. So much speculation. She could feel every eye in the room on her, as she sent the image to Batalova's station, and the operator put it up on the main screen in the control centre. The room seemed to take a collective gasp. Once more WASA's intel had been validated. Jess then sent the same image to General Roach, with the text, "_I have the Cylon. You have my crew and the_Endeavour_. Imagine this pasted across every news outlet in the world, along with your picture. Call your dogs off my sister, now! It's time to negotiate, General."_ She turned to Hayashi. "I have to get to Kazakhstan. _Somehow_ we have to get the truth out of that Cylon."

"Take the _Venture_."

Jess smiled wryly. "Overdoing it a bit to take a Guardian series space shuttle to Baikonur, don't you think?"

"American and British fighters can't touch you until after re-entry. I think it's safest," Hayashi returned. "Besides, Carter is just itching to try out the new ECM suite." He grinned widely. "Get some sleep. I'll call you when we're ready to launch."

"Well, bless your paranoid soul, Atsuo . . ." Jess murmured, touched by his concern for her personal safety.

"I'll ask Orlov to speak to Colonel General Surkov about a personal escort," Hayashi added.

"Can we trust the Russians on this, or will they throw in their lot with the Americans and British?" Jess asked, realizing he could no more predict the future than she could. "Your opinion."

"As if anyone can _ever_ figure out the Kremlin," said Batalova.

Hayashi nodded at her words before replying, "At this point, we have no choice, Dayton. We have to trust _somebody_."

"Can we pick someone else? Generals, in general, aren't high on my list just now," she returned sardonically.

"You're too damn cynical, Dayton," Hayashi retorted.

"Isn't that why you nominated me as Director?"

"You have a point."

xxxxx

"There is no possible way that someone on the outside could have penetrated our security!" Roach averred, looking at the sat-file of the old space shuttle, clear as day, sitting on the tarmac at Peterson Air Force Base next to an F-22. If it wasn't for the serial number on the jet fighter that could be traced to coming off the assembly line only twenty years before, they might have been able to slip it by the masses. But LM Dayton would be sure to point out that particular tidbit if she took this to the media.

"Then someone is working on the _inside_, General," Mason replied. "WASA is making inroads. They must be dealt with."

"The media will have a field day with this!" Roach growled. "This whole thing is coming apart!"

"The media will do as they're told," Mason replied in a soft voice. "I'll handle this."

"What about LM Dayton?" Roach asked. "She's not the "keep-quiet, do-as-you're-told" sort. Besides, whoever her source is . . ."

"I told you, I'll handle it, Roach." Mason lit another cigarette. "Just calm down. You do _your_ job. I'll do _mine_."

xxxxx

"Okay, Colonel. Yes, granted that three days isn't much time . . ." Dayton began.

"To find a Base Ship, destroy it, and get back home again," Apollo inserted soberly, striding forward to look over their navigation board. New data was being inputted, and an image of Earth's solar system was taking shape.

"Assuming Malus doesn't figure out what is wrong, and can fix it," Dorado added optimistically.

"We _have_ to start with Earth." Starbuck stepped forward, tapping his index finger on the board. "It's the obvious solution."

"How's that . . ." Dayton began. He was mildly surprised to hear that coming from _Almond Cappuccino,_ especially after Adama's explicit orders to the contrary.

"Go on," Ryan encouraged the strike captain, nodding thoughtfully. And transparently. "Let the kid talk, Mark."

"Uh huh," Dayton replied with a sigh.

"While we're sending out our patrols, looking for that Base Ship, we can use the Wraiths for reconnaissance on Earth. Our _own_ scanners can't detect them, and to Earthlings they'd likely be virtually invisible," Starbuck explained. He saw Dayton scowl. He hurriedly moved ahead. "Anyhow, that probe we saw, Dayton. Your people must have several."

"Well, that probe we saw over Sedna was launched years before we left, Starbuck. It's as outdated as wire wound around an oatmeal box."

"Good to know," Apollo nodded, deciding to ignore the obscure reference for now. "Even so, at this point, if the Cylons _are_ nearing Earth, your own people are more likely to be aware of it than _we_ are."

"So even if they can't defend themselves against an _Abaddon_ Base Ship, they might still _detect_ one. Of course." Dayton rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. "I was so busy thinking about how crude Earth technology would be compared to Colonial, I overlooked what they _did_ have." He glanced at Ryan. "Paddy, you figured you could tap into Earth's communications net through some of the Wraith's systems that the Espridians used to record data for observation. How's that looking?"

"Oh, I _know_ we can," Ryan agreed. "It might require some tweaking in the air, but nothing our pilots can't handle . . ."

"That's what I like to hear," Dayton nodded, before turning to the IL. "Malus, didn't you mention some old Earth communications you'd found in the Espridian archives? The ones where you retrieved enough data to confirm that the planet they visited _was_ Earth?"

"Yes, many of them. Most of the files were geological and environmental scans, and overviews of various cultural groups. Among the recorded transmissions were many of a military nature, and encrypted, although the Espridians easily deciphered them. In particular I enjoyed one in reference to the wreck of a crashed alien ship at some point in their past. According to the numerical designation used in Earth time, it occurred in the Earth yahren one thousand, nine hundred and forty seven . . ."

"Lord Thunderin' Jaysus!" exclaimed Paddy.

"Excuse me?" replied the IL.

"1947?" Baker echoed.

"Yes," the IL nodded. "It caused quite a commotion on the Earth intelligence networks that the Espridians were monitoring . . . although the eventual public broadcasts seemed to contravene initial data . . . something about a . . . _weather balloon_, although I'm not quite sure what that is. It was a fascinating study in human culture, Doctor, although a tad confusing."

"Roswell?" Dayton breathed quietly. He looked at his fellow Earthers, then back to the IL. "It was Roswell, right?"

"Roswell, New Mexico," Malus added, nodding. "Yes, that was the place." The IL brought a holomap up on the board. "Here, in this western region of this continental landmass. A highly arid region."

"You still have the Espridian archives, Mal?"

"Oh . . . somewhere around here," Malus waved a hand nonchalantly, immediately putting them in mind of the disaster that was usually Starbuck's duty office. The War Room was a stark contrast.

"Malus," Dayton's tone was sharp. "I can live with the blue 'eyes' and the red 'lips', but if you try to adopt that particular trait of Starbuck's, I'll pry off the top of your head and use it for a glow-in-the-dark ashtray. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Commander," replied the IL, tolerantly.

"What landed in Roswell, Mal?" Ryan interrupted, his face rapt with fascination. "Who were they?"

"I was uncertain, Doctor Ryan. The reports were somewhat nebulous, lacking in detail, as though they were primarily concerned about breaching security. I admit I was wondering if it was Espridian in nature. . ." the IL posed.

"Well, that _would_ make sense . . ." Baker interjected.

"Although I wouldn't mind knowing what would cause one of their Wraiths to go down, especially if I'm going to be flying one in the same area," Luana inserted soberly.

"Good point, Lu," Starbuck nodded. "Any data on that, Mal?"

"Only conjecture that did not sound very plausible to my more discernible ear."

"You don't have ears, Mal," Dayton reminded him. "Paddy, what were you going to say about tapping into the communications?"

"From some of our field tests in the Fleet, we can zero in on specific intelligence targets, receiving signals and data that we consecutively record."

"You tested this in the Fleet?" Dorado asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Where else?" Ryan shrugged.

"How did you manage to talk Ensign Luana into that without running it by _me_ first?" Dayton frowned, glancing at her. She squirmed under his eyes, inadvertently swinging her gaze towards her husband.

"She . . . well, _she_ wasn't the test pilot."

"Really?" Dayton replied, starting to get a sneaking suspicion he had been played like a fiddle at the county fair. "Who was?"

"I was," Starbuck replied with a careless wave of his hand.

"Ah," smiled Dayton. He looked from husband to wife, then back to Ryan again. "This is starting to make a lot of sense in a 'set up your commander' sort of way. I take it there's more?"

"Well . . ."

"Why am I not surprised?" the commander returned with a sigh. "Okay. Hit me. I can take it."

Ryan patted his friend on the shoulder. "You should know by now that we're full of surprises. Using my new languaphone and Malus' EIAI, the pilot can actually . . ."

"Wait a centon," Apollo interrupted, his brow furrowing. "_Languaphone_?"

"It's an improvement on your original languatron," Baker inserted. "Malus helped develop it. The EIAI is a complimentary unit that taps into the main speech and language centres of the human brain that we haven't tested yet."

"EIAI?" Apollo asked.

"_English In An Instant_. Pretty catchy, huh?" Ryan raised an enquiring eyebrow at Starbuck. "Now, the languaphone is an implantable device that goes in the inner ear, and the EIAI gets implanted in . . ."

"_Implantable_?" Starbuck winced, taking a step back, immediately reminded of the time he'd had a transceiver implanted under his skin to infiltrate Fausto's office not long after they'd picked the Earthmen up. Then there was the Obediator, about which he still had nightmares every time he overate. Neither had gone well. "Now wait a centon, Ryan, you didn't say _anything_ about implants . . ."

"Hey, they're not _those_ kind of implants, kid," Ryan teased him.

"Never much saw him as the Dolly Parton type, Paddy," Baker agreed with a chuckle. "Anyhow, Starbuck and Luana can weed through pertinent information the whole time that they're accessing intelligence, and if necessary, can hold a coherent conversation in English."

"Wouldn't you have to be able to hold one in Colonial Standard, first?" quipped Apollo.

"Kick me when I'm down," retorted Starbuck. "Yeah, it's pretty funny when they want to put implants in _me_ . . ."

The colonel grinned in agreement, ribbing his friend. "A laugh a centon . . ."

"Starbuck _and_ Luana . . ." Dayton crossed his arms over his chest, interrupting the banter. "How do you figure that? Luana is on the Wraith project, _not_Starbuck."

"Well, we have _two_Wraiths. Fully checked out, and ready to go, and approximately a hundred and forty-nine _billion_ square kilometres of land to cover," Ryan concluded, catching Dayton's scowl. "Okay, roughly fifty-seven and a half billion square miles." Dayton shook his head, and the other smiled slightly. "Besides, we armed the second Wraith, and Starbuck is the only one who's familiar with the new Dynamo interface system."

"Dynamo _weapons_ system?" Dayton glanced at Apollo. When the Dynamos energized, they not only knocked out a fighter's system, leaving it defenceless, it also left the pilot on the receiving end of it paralysed from the intensity of the energy wavelons. Apollo knew that first hand. "Did you know about this?"

Apollo hesitated just a micron too long.

"That's what I thought. Always the last to know." The commander turned on his strike captain. "You _know_ how I feel about you and Luana flying together. Do I have to go over Fraternization rules _again_?"

"I know," the young man replied, holding up his hands conciliatorily. "But we'll probably be separated by half a planet, or at least a continent or two, if it makes you feel any better." He glanced at his wife who was regarding him coolly, giving him the distinct feeling that she was okay with the temporary and vast separation.

Dayton blew out a breath of disbelief. "That's stretching it, to put it mildly." He blew out a shot of air. "How the _hell_did this even come together? We've only been back for just over a week!"

"The Wraith projects have been ongoing, since we started rebuilding the _Endeavour_," Ryan explained. "Same with the languaphone and EIAI. When we got back from Morlais, we realized it would be perfect for Earth, assuming we got a chance to get here, but we didn't have a chance to outfit Lu's ship similarly."

"How complicated _is_ the weapons system?" Dayton asked. "Compared to the standard Viper or Hybrid configuration." He moved to a console, and began calling up the specs on the machine. He snorted. "Why couldn't another pilot take it down? Why does it have to be Starbuck?"

"There are only three pilots currently qualified on the Wraiths, Mark," Baker reminded him. "Luana, Starbuck, and Apollo." The Earthman glanced at the colonel. "As much as I know that Apollo is a damned fine pilot, he's logged only about a quarter of the hours that Lu has, and only half of what Starbuck has, since our golden-haired boy started bombing around the Fleet, testing out our recon equipment. After Luana, Starbuck's the best pilot for the job. This is no time to make mistakes. You know how much will be riding on this."

Apollo nodded in calm acceptance, mildly amused to be called a _mistake_. Starbuck looked at him in obvious amusement, puffing out his chest dramatically, and clearly enjoying the moment. "Starbuck should go," Apollo inserted.

"Really? You think?" Dayton snorted, rounding on the _Endeavour_'s strike captain. "And if you're on Earth, Captain, and the _Ravager_comes calling, just who's going to lead the squadrons?"

The blue eyes looked back over his commander's shoulder pointedly, as a familiar grin crossed Starbuck's features. The one that said he was holding the capstone. Dayton turned again to regard the colonel.

"I will," Apollo replied, a matching smile on his face.

"He comes highly recommended," Starbuck smirked.

"This came together so well, you'd think we planned it," Ryan chuckled. "Sounds like a win-win situation all the way round."

"Doesn't it just?" Dayton conceded, with a resigned smile. He shook his head, as if both disgusted, and relieved. Either way, they had him, and he knew it. "Starbuck and Luana, prepare your ships . . ."

"They're ready to go," Ryan notified him.

"Gee, what a surprise!" Dayton replied sardonically. "We need to close the distance between us and Earth before you launch. That goes for the patrols, too, Apollo. There's no point in wasting time sightseeing, when we have a deadline."

Ryan grinned at his friend waving a finger at Starbuck and Lu. "Now, don't forget to stop by the Life Station so Cassiopeia and Malus can insert the implants . . ." Then he smiled evilly, raising and lowering his eyebrows. "Or _I_ could do it. A couple of shots of asteroid whiskey and you won't feel a thing . . . "

"Life Station it is," Starbuck hastily inserted.

"Okay, you two," Dayton added. "Remember! Under _no_ circumstances whatsoever are you to break communications silence or betray yourselves. That's an order."

"Yes, sir," Luana nodded.

"That goes _double_ for you, Starbuck," Dayton insisted. "Is that clear, _Cappuccino Cowboy_?"

Starbuck nodded. "Recon. Nothing more, Commander."

"Why do I feel like you're humouring me when you call me 'commander'?" Dayton smiled slightly, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. "What I wouldn't give . . ." he murmured quietly.

"I know," Starbuck returned, realizing how difficult it must be to get this close to your home planet and instead be stuck on a hunk of metal way out in space. Hades Hole, he'd feel the same if it was Caprica out there. He looked at all three of the Earthmen present. "It'll come."

"Hey, we've waited _this_ long, Mark . . ." Ryan shrugged, then scowled.

"Get out of here," Dayton told the two pilots, jerking his head towards the hatch, "before I detail you to . . . to checking tire pressure on the ships in the landing bay!" He smiled at their bewildered looks, then waved them ahead. Meanwhile, Apollo was watched him compassionately. Too compassionately. "Colonel, I believe Phoenix Squadron is awaiting their flight leader's briefing. We don't have all day."


	14. Chapter Two: Part Five

Lauren glanced at the small screen, studying the message she had received on her Sat-Phone. So far, none of the "Big Five" in media were willing to touch this. _Wow. Big revelation there!_ While she shouldn't have been surprised, she couldn't help the disgust that flooded through her that "freedom of the press" was so entirely subject to government censorship these days. People got their status-quo run-of-the-mill news on their plasmas or big screens, while simultaneously tracking their children, conversing with their friends, and playing the latest interactive game. The hardcore news, _real_ news, as her great-Uncle Roy had once called it, was available on the Web, if one was willing to take off their rose-coloured glasses and bother to look for it. However, often that involved the wearisome task of weeding through the garbage, deciding what was fact, theory or fiction. It was a lot of extra work for the masses that had grown accustomed to being not only told what, but also _how_ to think. No, none of the mainstream media outlets were willing to go out on a limb, and those journalists who _were_ had been driven to "freelancing", another word for "starvation" in this climate. What was it that Napoleon Bonaparte had once said? _I fear the newspapers more than a hundred thousand bayonets._Those days were gone, much like the paper form of media that the French general had been speaking of.

Checking her GPS, she realized it was time. T-boning, her tires screeched to a stop, barricading two lanes of traffic, as she threw open the door of her car, leaping out and tearing her way across the interstate bridge. It was a bit extreme, especially just before morning rush hour started, but she was desperate to get to her next contact point before the bad guys caught up with her. Again. Besides, what were the drivers around her going to do . . . actually _hit_ her? Vehicles screamed to a stop, and horns blew in fury at the crazy woman trying to race across eight lanes of traffic after abandoning her car. Several people hurled insults at her, and for a moment she wondered if her _new_ biggest problem would be dealing with irate drivers. Then a sharp sting sliced across the flesh of her upper arm, and she hastily changed her mind.

The bad guys were back!

Still in one piece, she vaulted over the median. She crouched low, pouring on the speed, and dodging between skidding vehicles as they tried to avoid her. God Bless America, after all! She didn't dare look back, but pressed ahead, finally reaching the opposite side, still standing upright. Without second-guessing herself, she leapt over the guardrail, knowing the drop was enough to shake her, but not break her.

"Oomph!" she grunted, as she dropped and rolled to break her fall. Then she was scrambling beneath the overpass and moving more slowly through the tall grass, looking for the telltale signs . . .

_There it was!_

She picked up the dirt bike, climbing astride, and inputting her access code. Lauren

grinned like a mad woman when her indicators lit up. _Thanks, Rex! You always deliver!_Pulling in the clutch, she hit the start button, letting out a whoop of joy when the engine roared to life.

_Ping!_

She cursed, as a shot zinged close, ricocheting off a rock. Not daring to waste the time looking back, she hit the throttle. A moment later she was heading for the hills, cross-country, making for her next rendezvous.

xxxxx

She'd purposely stayed at least one stride ahead of him from the time they'd left the Life Station, right up until they'd entered Gamma Bay. When he'd stepped up his pace to catch her, she'd done the same. It would have almost been amusing if they hadn't been at each other's throats the night before, and he'd spent the rest period sleeping in his duty office. Oh sure, they'd managed to keep it cordial during the latest briefing, but he hadn't missed the dark looks Lu had shot his way. At this point Starbuck was almost glad he was climbing into a cockpit for a solo mission. _Almost_. However, that changed as soon as she glanced back at him, her brown eyes so wide and lost looking that his simmering anger dissipated instantly, leaving him wrapped in a shroud of uncertainty.

"Lu!" he called, as she somewhat reluctantly turned away to head for her Wraith. She paused, her shoulders tensing. She didn't look back, but waited. It was better than shooting him with her laser, he supposed.

He covered the few paces between them, glad for the noise and bustle of the launch bay. Lightly, he placed a hand on her arm, and she turned to regard him, before shrugging it off. For the first time he realized that there were faint shadows under her eyes. She obviously hadn't spent a very fitful night.

Then again, at least _she'd_ had the luxury of a bed.

"What?" she asked curtly, meeting his searching gaze for only a moment before glancing out over the bay.

"I . . .uh . . ." he mumbled, unsure of what to say to ease the tension between them, or even if that was possible, at this point. He let out a long breath, raking a hand through his hair. "Just . . . just be careful out there."

She jerked her head back in his direction, the sharp motion betraying her anger, as she lifted her eyebrows at him. "That's _it_?"

He instinctively raised his hands upwards in self-defence. How could a guy get in trouble with words that were so innocuous? "I, uh . . . I don't know what you _want_ me to say . . . especially after last night . . ."

"You could start by saying you _care_ . . ." she retorted, leaning closer to him, trying to keep her voice down.

"Of _course_ I care . . ." he began, not really understanding how she could think otherwise.

"_That we can't have a baby_!" she shouted, her bitter resentment hitting him in the face like a physical blow. Heads began to turn. "You keep saying that maybe things will change, that maybe Cassie's wrong, but, Holy Mother Triquetra, Starbuck, I'm as barren as a Borellian desert!" Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them back furiously.

"Hey, now . . ." he tried to console her, lifting a hand to touch her. One glare, and a sudden jolt backwards from his wife made him think better of it. He dropped his hand. "Cassie said we could try those hormonal infusions, that we could do another test in six sectars . . ."

"So _I'm_ supposed to live in hope for six sectars, only to find out for the _third_ time that I can't have a child?" she snapped. "Stop jerking me around, Starbuck! I can't take this felgercarb! The expectation followed by the defeat!"

"Jerking you around?" he repeated incredulously. "Sagan's sake, Lu . . . I'm . . .I'm just trying to help . . ."

"You _can't_ fix this! I know you _want_ to, but you _can't_! Don't you understand?" she beseeched him.

He stared at her, and then slowly shook his head. How did this get to be about _him_? "Evidently not. I wish . . ."

"If wishes were Battlestars, Starbuck, the Colonials would have won the war a _long_ time ago," she returned sadly. "I need you to stop telling me it's going to be okay. I'm a big girl; I can live with disappointment. But it would be a lot easier if we weren't living in some kind of fantasy world where you think that miraculously one day we're going to have a family . . ."

"Have a family? Hey, when the day comes that we're ready, there's an entire _ship_full of orphans . . ."

She held a hand up, forestalling his words. "I know you don't want to hear this, but right now I want my _own_ child. Not somebody else's. I know that sounds selfish, especially considering . . ."

He suspected it was the look on his face that abruptly stopped her explanation. "Stunned" couldn't begin to define what he was feeling. How many families had looked at him on the orphanage playground, only to pick another child to call their own? "Well, you're not the _first_ person who felt that way . . ." he managed to choke out, as he turned to look at his ship. On behalf of a ship full of orphans, he was wearing her rejection like a cloak of self-reproof, and it obviously showed. His Chief Warrant Officer, Jenny, had her arms crossed, and was tapping her foot impatiently. Like a lifeline, it jerked him out of his introspection. He glanced at his chrono. "We'd better . . ."

"_Frack_ . . . this isn't about _you_," Luana muttered, putting a hand on his arm. "Starbuck, my people were poised for extinction when you came across us. A male infant hadn't been born in _two_ generations. War, and then a strange malady had killed every single man in our society, one by one. For a hundred yahrens, every pregnancy was a symbol of hope for us. Expectant mothers were _revered_ in Empyrean society. Maybe _that's_ why this is so important to me . . ."

He nodded slightly, at this point lost for words. One thing he knew for certain was that he wouldn't be able to change her mind. At least not now. "I guess we just . . . see things differently." It took him a moment to realize that he'd once said those same words to Athena, their relationship also a casualty of war.

"I guess we do," she replied sadly, looking at her own ship. She turned, as if to go.

"I love you, Lu," he suddenly blurted out. Instinctively he knew he couldn't just leave it like this. "I know how much you're hurting right now, and if I could do something to change that, I _would_ . . .but I just don't know _what_ to do . . . or _how_ to make it better . . ." He held up his hands helplessly, imploring her to understand.

She looked back at him and smiled slightly, her eyes once again bright with unshed tears. "That, _Innamorato_, helped more than you can know." She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, as he pulled her into a tight embrace. "I love you, too."


	15. Chapter Three: Part One

Chapter Three

Mars.

"The Red Planet", Dayton had called it, apparently because of the high content of iron oxide on its surface giving it its ruddy hue. The atmosphere was light, composed of ninety-five point three percent carbon dioxide, two point seven percent nitrogen, one point six percent argon, plus small amounts of oxygen, carbon monoxide, and water vapour, along with other trace elements not even worth mentioning. There were traces of microbial life in isolated spots on the surface, two tiny moons, and the whole place was _cold!_No, it wasn't exactly the garden spot in this solar system.

In the cockpit of the Wraith, Starbuck was also picking up various unmanned spacecraft in the planet's orbit, some operational, others not. By Colonial standards they were small and primitive, most appearing to be satellites or probes, probably sent out for research and reconnaissance. In fact, the closer the Colonials drew to Earth, the more manmade space paraphernalia they encountered. A guy couldn't swing a dead felix without hitting some kind of space debris. Well okay, maybe he was exaggerating just a bit. All the same, the old Colonial Salvage Company could have made a fortune . . . and for a brief micron he entertained the idea of a secondary career in scrap, more out of habit, than any real desire.

He studied the data, knowing that not far off his starboard, Luana would be running the same scans. It was downright weird to be, first, on a mission with his wife, and, second, to be maintaining communications silence. Sagan, by comparison he'd blathered his way through several star systems, even those occupied by Cylons. Still, he told himself as they left Mars astern, that these Earthlings seemed to launch electronic felgercarb into space the way that other cultures did fireworks for festivals, each piece seemingly searching for . . . _something_. He knew that by now the _Endeavour_ would be running its own geotechnical survey of the planet as they passed by, apparently searching for evidence of man's existence, either present or past. Over the last number of sectars, while listening to old tales of Earth, Dayton and his men had told the Colonial Warrior that once their people had reached the moon, and then established an International Space Station, that they had then set their sites on Mars. When the Space Shuttle had launched in 2010, Mars—as a _manned_mission—was still the unattainable dream. Budget constraints in a dour economy had made the future of manned space flight tenuous. Also, space exploration had been treated as some kind of international "competition", leaving the planet's technological resources split between a handful of major players, all of them strapped for funds. Of course, all of the Earthmen were anxious to find out if the journey to Mars had ever been completed.

A flash in the bottom of his face shield's optical display demanded his attention. He was picking up a signal . . . from _Mars_. Briefly, he tried to decipher the message, shaking his head at the static as the signal broke up repeatedly. As much as he was tempted to check it out, he knew he didn't have the time to spare. Instead, he sent a Unicom short burst transmission to Apollo to follow up on it.

An instant later, he picked up another signal. This one on a bearing straight for Earth. The computer identified it as an emergency beacon, the frequency looking alarmingly familiar. He frowned as he analysed it.

Well, coincidentally, he happened to be going that way. Sort of.

xxxxx

Cold.

Silent.

Inert.

Or so it first appeared.

The WASA probe, Seeker Four, neared Deimos, continuing on a path it had been following for over ten years. Moving silently around the cold moon below, it gave no indication of being anything but a derelict craft from another time, its purpose long spent. It came around over the sunlit side of the distant world, trailing less than a hundred miles behind the alien-built behemoth.

_Beep._

_xxxxx_

In the Control Centre of the _Endeavour_, Coxcoxtli was running a scan on yet another old Earth probe they had spotted. He was fascinated with the history of space flight, and this particular machine was no exception. What particularly intrigued him was that his first assessment of this antiquated craft, it seemed, was somewhat in error. It wasn't completely dead.

There was power.

Minimal, scarcely worth mentioning, but the old relic wasn't quite so dead as initial scans had first indicated. He gave it a slow once-over with the main scanner suite, probing the old machine right down to her paint job. As he analysed the data, and was mulling whether this was worth informing his superiors about just yet, one of his readouts spiked.

_Beep._

"What the. . ." he said, running the scan again. Sure enough, something inside the Earth spacecraft was operational.

And was scanning _them_.

"Cox?" asked Pierus.

"This is weird, Pierus. That old probe. She's suddenly started scanning us."

"Better inform . . ."

"Better inform what?" asked Dorado, entering. "Yes?"

xxxxx

_What the. . ._

Lee looked down at his console where a light was flashing. He pressed a control, and did a double take.

_"What the everliving . . .?"_

"Shung?" asked Hayashi in the Guiana Space Centre. "What is it?"

"Incoming transmission. From Seeker Four"

"Seeker Four?" Hayashi felt the colour drain from his face. "You mean . . ."

"One of the probes we sent out almost ten years ago. She's sending something."

"Define 'something'."

"Better take a look."

"What is it?" Hayashi got up, and went over to the other's station.

"Well, let's . . ."

_HOLY SHIT!_


	16. Chapter Three: Part Two

_" . . .arstow Station, to Guiana Control, over. Repeat, Barstow Station to Guiana Control, over. Barstow Station reporting failure in main power reactor__. . ."_

Apollo zeroed in on the signal, nodding at Dietra not only when it became stronger, but when he picked up indications of some sort of artificially constructed shelter on the fourth planet, that Dayton had called "Mars". Apparently, Earthmen _had_ made it to Mars, subsequent to Dayton's Space Station disaster. Belatedly, he wished the Colonials had taken the extra time to equip the Hybrids with languatron technology, or that Ryan had had the time to create enough of his newly developed languaphones that more of their pilots could interpret the Earthspeak that was now spewing out of the comm suite, sounding like a flock of chattering poulons in distress.

"Even after all these sectars, I still can't make any sense of their language," Dietra admitted quietly beside him. "Except for maybe three or four words." She paused. "'Jaysus Murphy'. 'Lord thundering Jesus'. 'Bloody Hell'. . ."

"Well, in this case, the tone of voice speaks louder than the words," Apollo interrupted her Earthspeak recital, as he redirected the signal to the _Endeavour_'s Control Centre, awaiting orders. "They're in some kind of trouble down there."

"Any idea what sort?" she asked.

"Not clearly, but I think they're having some kind of technical problem. I picked up the word . . . uh, _failure_."

"I hope they're okay," said Dee, looking at the dusty world, on her screen. "Lousy place to get stranded."

xxxxx

They had had to alter course to intercept it, but now that her War Book could analyse it, the signal that Lu was picking up was identified as Cylon. However, the probe carrying the emergency beacon out across the star system, rather archaic and crude, was just as certainly from Earth. One only had to plot its course back to the point of launch. Oh, it was _supposed_ to be classified, but she'd heard the rumblings of the Cylon Raider that had crash landed on Earth's moon, and the emergency beacon that had been activated, to lead the Cylons across the galaxy to their prey. Starbuck had mumbled about it in his sleep a time or two, as events revealed to him by Ama in a vision of sorts weighed heavily on his mind. Evidently, rather than just destroy the beacon, leaving only a recent point of transmission to trace and investigate, the Earthlings had instead chosen to send it on a journey away from their homeworld. A decoy. It would have been a reasonably good idea if the probe could move faster, rather than being strapped to an old-style chemically fuelled rocket that would take yahrens to get between planets, and if the Cylons weren't already suspected to be in the vicinity.

She frowned as she "eyeballed" Starbuck's ship off her wing on her ship's scanner. What would he decide to do? After all, the Dynamo that his ship was armed with could only scramble the circuitry, deactivating the beacon, and leave the probe to sail on, inert. The Cylons could still find it. Not that it would matter much, with all the transmissions they had picked up coming from Earth. A Cylon Base Ship would have to be blind, deaf and down on diodes to not detect the multitude of transmissions coming from the planet.

A moment later, they were passing the probe by, leaving it unscathed. Not too surprisingly, Starbuck had decided it wasn't worth blowing their cover. After all, damaging the decoy would only raise the question at this point of who had interfered.

xxxxx

"Our intel shows that the Guiana complex is preparing to launch another space shuttle, Whatley," Mason reported to the British Joint Intelligence Committee Chairman, while slowly rolling his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray. He was making one last secure sat-call before informing the irrepressible General Roach that there was a Intelligence Community meeting in Washington they would be attending, before flying to Colorado. Of course, the content was completely irrelevant to the matter at hand, which would annoy Roach to his limit.

"Ours as well," Whatley replied, exhaling slowly over the line. Like his American counterpart, he was also a smoker. Heavy. He practically mainlined tobacco. "That was a bad show with the _Unity_, Mason. Damned bad!" He blew out a stream of smoke, his lip curling in anger. "Our skipper almost hopped the twig on that one. If he hadn't jinked away at the last moment . . ."

"Hopped the . . .?" Mason asked, more because it was expected than because he wanted to know.

"_Died_, man!" Whatley snorted. He took a slow drag. "After that, Marshall Leach and I are planning a little reception of sorts for WASA's next launch."

"That's what I wanted to hear, Whatley." He smirked. "About time those upstarts were cut down to size."

"A calculated guess would have them heading for Kazakhstan," Whatley continued, idly.

"Oh?" Now, that hurt. Whatley obviously knew something he didn't, but he schooled his face to remained nonplussed. "Tell me about your figures."

"A space shuttle was seen landing at Baikonur Space Centre." His image was momentarily replaced by images of the _Venture_, on the tarmac, surrounded by various vehicles. "We received these less than six hours ago. About the time your lot was sitting on the _Unity_ at Kennedy. Interesting?" Whatley practically crowed, making Mason want to rip his face off and use it for a shoe rag.

Mason sneered, taking all of a second to put it together. "That . . . _bitch_!" He would redouble his efforts to find LM Dayton, and use her as bait to bring in the older sister. Hmm . . . their mother . . .

"You'll be pleased to know that I've spoken with Director Borodin."

"I'm listening." Yuri Vladimirovic Borodin was the Director for the Main Directorate of Intelligence for the Russian Federation.

"He has Spetsnaz Forces already in Kyzylorda. They will move in and take the Space Centre."

"How will he explain that . . .?"

"Kazakhstan is merely moving ahead in world cooperation while forging an increasingly effective world partnership to combat the terrorist threat," Whatley supplied, not even cracking a smile. "Plausible deniability is being put in place as we speak. Trust me, WASA is about to go down in flames, like her predecessor."

Mason chuckled. "Tally-Ho, old chap!"

xxxxx

After fourteen hours of evading an untimely end, Lauren Dayton tossed and turned in the old, lumpy bed, her exhausted mind suffused by dreams. Images she knew, or should know, ripped across her vision, things . . . things that refused to stand still.

_Who . . ._

_I'm here! I'm here, baby. It's me! I've come back!_

_Who? Who are you? I can't see you!_

_Reach out to me, Baby! Reach out to me. I'm here!_

_I . . . Oh God! It can't be . . ._

_Honey! I'm here! I'm here, Lauren Michelle . . ._

"DADA!" she shouted, snapping awake, and nearly rolling off onto the floor. She looked around. As her breathing settled down, she remembered where she was. She was in the bedroom of the dingy, filthy "safe house" she'd made it to, after evading the hit squad sent after her. She wiped her brow, dripping with sweat, the sheets soaked through. Oh, she hated those hot summer days with no AC. Absently, she rubbed her bandaged arm, checking the graze. Slowly, she got up and moved to the dirty window, peeking between the blinds.

It was a dull rainy day outside, the streets of Chicago bustling with activity. What a ride it had been to get here! Two cars, a dirt bike, a plane, another car and the Chicago 'L' later, she'd made it home. Or as close as she dared come to home with those killers after her. She groaned, as the images of her dream reverberated through her head.

She had dreamed of her father. Mark Dayton, late of the Space Shuttle _Endeavour._ _Very_ damn late. His image had been obscure, hard to see, but that voice . . . never if she lived to be a thousand would she ever forget her father's voice. All those digital family movies her parents had taken when she'd been small would ensure that. He had been reaching out to her, as dark, malignant shapes seemed to close in around her. Men in dark clothes, their eyes alone showing. An oppressive presence that she couldn't quite define. Endless expanses of terrifying emptiness.

And Cylons. She'd seen them, too. The other kind—the "centurions"—their faces dominated by the endless oscillating red eye, their inhuman voices telling her she was going to die. That they were _all_ going to die.

And her father, suddenly there, reaching out to save her, to pull her away from the malevolent forces that sought not only her annihilation, but that of every man, woman and child on Earth. Even though she had only been three years old when her father had gone on that ill-fated mission, never to return, thanks to her mother she still had some tangible memories of Mark Dayton. Yvonne Dayton had sheltered her children from the ensuing chaos, deciding to home school them, in order to let the initial din die down. It had been years later when she'd learned of the despicable conspiracy accusations, and how her mother had actually been held for interrogation and grilled for two solid weeks . . . that whole period blurred into a pleasant two-week stay with her grandparents in Chicago. Weird, she hadn't dreamed about her father much for years, thinking that the trauma of her early childhood was long behind her. But now . . .

But now, it was back, like the slap of an ocean wave. Her dream hadn't just been terrifying, it had been terrifyingly _real._Something, something beyond anything she had yet uncovered or imagined, was happening. Something that filled her with utter terror. She picked up her Sat-Phone, to call her sister. She was about to thumb the speed dial, but a sudden powerful impulse made her forebear. It wasn't time for her check-in, anyway, and . . .

She shook her head, and looked in the mirror, knowing she had to get moving again. No place was safe for long. She saw herself, looking haggard and resembling about five miles of bad road. And for a moment, she saw, she _saw,_another face, next to her own. Tentatively, she reached for the filthy glass . . .

_"Dada. . .?"_

_xxxxx_

Far away, in the security section deep inside Cheyenne Mountain, Captain Richard Dickins, USN, awoke to a bright light suffusing his cell. He shielded his eyes, assuming it was just another one of their ploys to make sure he stayed good and sleep deprived, before they started grilling him again. Tensing, he waited for the thick plexiglas door to slide open, and the usual Hazmat-suited goons to come calling. While a little subtler than Torg and Bex, they weren't much better. A half a galaxy apart, the human capacity for cruelty was just as apparent back _home_. Clamping down on his emotions, he mentally began to retreat to that safe place . . . his haven . . . his desperate connection to sanity . . . He stood at the door, his hand poised over the doorbell as he looked over the garden at the front of the house. The rosemary was in full bloom, and he could smell the aroma of roasting chicken as it wafted through the open windows. Garlic and rosemary would season the bird, and he could almost taste the stuffing, mashed potatoes and Anna's perfect gravy. His mouth began to water at the very thought. Smiling, he rang the doorbell, pausing in trepidation as he waited. Any minute now, Anna would open the door, screaming in surprise and unadulterated joy that he was miraculously still alive. Somehow she never aged in his imagination . . . neither did the kids . . .

"Not now, Dick-Dickins, we need you here."

Like a rag doll, he was jerked back to reality. He leapt off his bunk, shielding his eyes as the aurora faded, revealing a figure. The figure was that of a woman, dressed in blinding white, her wild hair framing her face, as though she had been caught in a windstorm.

"What the . . .? _Ama_?" His heart thudded against his chest, and he stepped forward, reaching out to her . . . before jerking his hand back, abruptly afraid it was some kind of sick trick. Had they drugged his food again? Was he about to depart on another hallucinogenic trip to Planet Paranoia?

Then she stepped forward, and it didn't matter how quickly he retreated, there was no stopping the Empyrean necromancer. Her hands were suddenly on his temples, and her grey eyes smiled reassuringly at him. Then she tilted her forehead, touching it to his own. Bizarrely, it was as if she had picked him up, and was cradling him in her loving arms. He sighed, his body relaxing, as he slumped against the transparent wall. When was the last time he'd felt _any_loving arms enfold him?

"Do not worry, Dick-Dickins," she said. "You have not been forgotten. Your release is not far off."

"How? What do you mean?" He blew out a short breath. "What in _Sam Hill_ are you doing here, Ama?"

"Helping, Dear Heart." She glanced upward momentarily. "I've found that I'm not awfully good at keeping my nose out of things, but they should have realized _that_ going in." Then she grinned at him, and her gapped-tooth smile was like a symbolic beacon of hope. "Your liberation is close. Do not fear."

"But . . ."

"Faith, Dick-Dickins. It will sustain you," she assured him.

Then, with another flash of light, she was gone. He was alone, his cell dark once more. On his bunk in the next cell, Hummer snored quietly, oblivious.

xxxxx

Billions of miles away, in his cabin aboard the _Endeavour_, Mark Dayton jolted awake. "Mark? Mark!" said Cassie, leaning over him, as he jerked up, sweaty and breathing hard. She startled when he almost butted heads with her.

"Lauren Michelle . . ." he murmured, disoriented for the moment. With barely any sleep the previous night, he had once again nodded off while sitting at his desk, while a weird somnolence had overtaken him. He recalled trying to fight it off, somewhat aware of it, but it had sucked him down, making his eyelids feel heavier than a Battlestar. It was just . . . _weird_.

"Mark?" she asked again, taking his hand, and noticing it was shaking.

"Uh . . . a dream, Cassiopeia," he replied, enveloping her hand in his own, to mask the trembling, before he kissed it briefly and released it. Straightening up and standing, he worked the kinks out of his back. He could hear his spine crack. "Just another dream."

"A bad one, from the sound of it."

"Yeah," said Dayton, going to the sink, and splashing water on his face.

"Lauren Michelle?" she asked quietly, watching him.

"My daughter. Jessica's younger sister. She was . . . she was in danger."

"Are you sure it was her? I mean, it's been a long time."

"I know, Cassiopeia. I just do. It was Lauren, and she was in danger. Being chased by people with guns. She was reaching out to me, and I couldn't reach her." He ran a hand over his unshaven face, as though he could erase his weariness.

"You think it's real, don't you?" she asked him. "A psychic dream?"

He glanced at her in amazement. She was almost eerily intuitive at times. "Yeah. I know it sounds weird, Cassiopeia. Maybe even kind of hokey, but I do. Somehow, Lauren's in danger, and she reached out to me." He didn't bother to explain how he felt as though he'd been hijacked into this dream, against his will.

Cassie nodded, tentatively laying a hand on his arm. "Are you . . .are you planning to go down to Earth?" she asked him.

_Against Adama's orders_ . . . The words were unspoken, but the message was clear. "Well, I . . ."

_Beep._

"_Commander Dayton to Control Centre,"_said Dorado. "_Repeat, Commander Dayton, to Control Centre_."

"Dayton. On my way." He looked to her, briefly pressing his lips against hers. "Gotta go."

xxxxx

Ignoring the elevator, the men dressed in dark suits headed up the stairwell of the Buckingham Pavilion Care Home in Chicago, emerging onto the recently renovated Third Floor. Having bypassed the main station this way, they moved quietly along the hallway, without any trouble. As expected, the employees of the private, exclusive, and very expensive extended care facility took the two well-dressed, nondescript men for family members visiting one of the many elderly patients. They smiled innocuously at the nurse passing by, and she gave them a cheery greeting in return. Nobody would ever suspect . . .

They turned down the corridor, their pace slowing as they neared their target. Yvonne Dayton's room. Seventy-nine, thin as a rail, frail, the old broad shouldn't present much of a problem. Taking a final look around, they knocked politely on the door, and, after a few moments, walked in, closing it tightly behind them.

"What the . . ."

"Holy crap!"

"We are so screwed. The Director isn't going to be too happy."

The room was stripped clean, not a single personal possession in sight. It was apparent that Mrs. Dayton's family took better care of the old woman than any of them realized. In the knick of time, they had moved her out.

xxxxx

Sagan's sake, it was almost like looking down on Planet 'P' all over again,as Starbuck and Luana neared the blue and white planet that was home to the Thirteenth Tribe of Man. The difference, of course, being that instead of looking at the planet through the transparent canopy of a Viper, he was in a blacked-out cockpit in a ship designed for stealth, where his helmet's heads-up display interfaced with the Wraith's systems. Oh, and the fact that there seemed to be about two million kilons of space junk littering the low-Earth orbit.

What the frack, it was _still _exhilarating!

Starbuck opened his mouth, then firmly clamped it shut again. Maintaining communications silence had never been one of his strong suits, but he had given Dayton his word—several times, actually, upon his commanding officer's insistence—and he wasn't about to break it before he even felt Earth's gravitational pull. Not unless he had to, of course. All the same, his sites had been set on Earth for almost two yahrens now, and the emotional impact of finally getting here left him wanting to whoop in joy, or blather incessantly, not dispassionately look over his readouts while altering his course on the flight path that Apollo had assigned him to, as his wife veered off in the opposite direction. He'd rendezvous with Lu in twenty-four centars, and decide whether they had enough data to return to the _Endeavour_.

Starbuck had refrained from mentioning to the colonel that he'd noticed he was going to be heading nowhere near the infamous Cheyenne Mountain, that particular grid assigned to Lu for some reason. It was enough to give a lesser man a complex, insinuating that they didn't trust him to "keep his nose clean", as Dayton liked to say. It was almost as if Apollo had known about the scheme he'd cooked up with Ryan, where they'd do whatever was humanly possible to get both Hummer and Dickins out of incarceration, and preferably back where they belonged. At this point he was wondering just how in Hades Hole he was going to make that happen, as he settled in to let the Wraith's instruments began recording the reconnaissance data that was already flashing across his screens . . .

_Beep!_

A ship was on his scanner, leaving Earth and settling into orbit in the thermosphere. Sensors designated her as a transport vessel of some sort, unarmed from the looks of her. "WASA" was stamped across her fuselage, and he recognized the Earth letters from some doodling Ryan had done. As he examined the specs the computer was spitting out, it appeared that Earth shuttles had improved markedly since Dayton and his crew had launched in 2010. After all, this one had some crude electronic countermeasures, a fairly respectable scanner from what he was detecting, as well as greater speed. Then again, from what Ryan had told him, Earthlings had focussed a great deal of energy and money on intraplanetary wars. It would follow that ECM would be crucial in the evolution of their space ships. With a flick of a switch, he adjusted his sensors, frowning at the image of several other ships it had left behind, likely limited to planetary atmospheric flying. Kind of strange that they had needed an escort . . . He adjusted the controls as he picked up a signal coming from the Earth shuttle's comm system. Voices came over his headset and it took him a few microns before his ear could discern between the often incoherent babble that he recognized as Earthspeak, and what was filtered through his languaphone.

_"Guiana, this is Venture. By the skin of our teeth, we're away."_

_"Did you take any hits, Carter?"_

_"Negative. Typically, they were more intimidating than deadly. Besides, we outran them. Left 'em practically standing still, the poor sods! It'll be a cold day in hell when an F-35 outruns a Guardian."_

_"That's the me talk to Dayton."_

_"Stand by. I'll put her on."_

Starbuck drew in a deep breath, almost not believing his ears. Dayton? Could it possibly be that easy? The Starbuck Luck was still with him, after all. Not only had he apparently stumbled upon a WASA shuttle, but from what he had heard, Commander Mark Dayton's daughter might very well be aboard. His heart thudded against his chest in excitement. Lords, if Dayton could only be here . . .

_"Any word, Hayashi?"_a female voice asked. Even through the Languatron, it was a husky, smoky kind of female voice, pleasing to the ear.

_"None, Jess. But don't dismay. You know your sister. She's been in tighter spots than this."_

Starbuck altered course, shadowing the Earth shuttle from a distance as he listened in on the conversation. Sagan, it was so damned tempting to just cut communications silence, and announce that he was there. Yeah sure, Dayton had told him not to betray his presence, but surely the man would feel different if he knew it was his own daughter out there. Not only that . . . but Starbuck was getting the idea that her sister was in some kind of trouble, from the tone of Jess' voice.

His instinct was telling him to just do it. Hadn't Ama told him more than once that he should follow his instincts? But did that include disobeying a direct order? And for what? To let a forty-eight year old Earth woman know that her father wasn't dead after all? Would that justify his transgression? Even in his own mind?

"_Dayton, there's more. We just received a signal from one of those probes we launched to keep an eye on our star system . ._."

_Beep!_

"Oh, _frack_!"

And his mind was made up.


	17. Chapter Three: Part Three

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Jess Dayton from the flight deck of the _Venture_, leaning forward in her seat as the data was replayed for her. They had just made orbit and, not surprisingly, had had to outrun a few of Leach's fighters to do it. To add to that their launch had been delayed for hours by technical difficulties that she suspected was sabotage. "And this came in _when_?"

"Not ten minutes ago," said Hayashi, back at the Guiana Space Centre. "Jess, it's huge. Bigger than I ever expected."

"Sure as hell is," replied Jess. She sat there stunned, as she tried to absorb the reality of what she was looking at while a chill terror wrapped its deadly grip around her heart.

_They_ were here!

"Copy this to Kazakhstan, Borneo and the rest. They all need to see this."

"Right away," nodded Hayashi, as he sent the image of a Cylon _Abaddon_-class Base Ship to the rest of WASA to let them know that _they_had arrived. "At least we have a little time, Dayton. It'll take them a while to get here from Mars . . . and this might explain why we've lost contact with Barstow Station._Damn_!"

"Oh, God . . . We need more time!" Jess groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. If the Cylons had already attacked their Mars outpost, there was little chance of survivors. From what the Guardians had shown them, a single blast from the Cylons' weapons could reduce the entire base to dust. She tried to force down the bile that was threatening to choke her. She _had_ to talk to General Roach . . . but _how_ to get through to him . . .

_Beep_.

"We've got a bogie, ten o'clock," said Carter. "Closing fast!"

Abruptly, a flash of light passed in front of the _Venture_, the shuttle shuddering in response.

"What the _hell_ . . .!?" Carter shouted. "Taking evasive action!"

"I've lost Guiana!" Trent said, as the communicator crackled uselessly.

"What is it?" Jess demanded, craning her neck to look at the scanner. Whatever it was, it was moving too fast to lock on to.

Suddenly, a mechanized voice began transmitting over their communications system. The tone was curiously detached, but managed to fill each person present with a dread fear, even though they couldn't comprehend a single word.

Save one.

_Cylon._

"What the hell is it saying?" Carter asked, a note of desperation in his voice, as another beam of light shot across their nose. The _Venture_ shook again, as an alarm started screaming. The cabin lights died and one of the screens went dark amid a shower of sparks. The engines began to whine dangerously.

"I haven't got a clue," Jess replied, shaking her head in disbelief. Looking at the instruments she could see the ugly truth. They were losing speed and had lost communications with Earth. It seemed that the Cylons were jamming their systems. She looked out the ports and could see the alien killing machine heading directly at them. They'd escaped Leach's fighters only to end up as the Cylons' next victims. All that work and dedication only to find out it was too little, too late.

xxxxx

"Commander on the Bridge!" announced Pierus.

"Report!" Dayton demanded, as he entered the Control Centre of the _Endeavour_.

"Two things," Dorado replied. "One of those Earth probes just scanned us at close range and for almost a full centon. They've definitely spotted us."

"_Bloody_ hell . . ." Dayton murmured. He crossed to the scanner station. Sure enough, the old probe had taken a good look at them before going dark again. "Why don't we just broadcast our arrival?"

"We just did," Porter told him wryly.

"Next, Colonel Apollo relayed a distress call from M . . . uh . . . Mars?" He looked at Dayton, who nodded. "We're just translating it . . ."

"What are you picking it up on?"

"A gamma frequency. We're practically in line with a relay satellite, Commander. The base is on the far side of the planet, just now."

"Porter!" Dayton snapped, already filing the first bit of bad news away as "too bad, so sad". He looked to his man, even as a huge swell of excitement swept over him. Mankind had actually made it to Mars!

"Their main power reactor failed, Mark. They're in big trouble," Porter told him, still listening in at his station. "The cooling system failed. A valve jammed and the pressure spiked, leading to a ruptured reactor vessel. Radiation has been released and while the reactor has been sealed off, it sounds like enough crud got into the Base through the air vents to cause some real problems. Radiation sickness generally starts to set in within twelve hours." Baker paused to look at his watch. "It all depends on how much exposure they were subject to before it was locked down, of course. We need to get them out of there while we can still do something about it."

"ETA to the Mars Base?" Dayton asked Coxcoxtli instinctively, realizing as the words left his mouth that it had to be negligible.

"It'll take more time to put together the team than to reach that position, Commander," replied the other, as he looked at his chrono.

"Of course. Dorado, I need our token Cylon shuttle prepared, a landing team and a med team. Quick in and out."

"Yes, sir," said Dorado. "Commander, I also recommend bringing Malus . . ."

"What's the progress on the Clavis?" Dayton asked.

"I am afraid I have not made much progress, Commander," the IL replied, voice like that of a guilty child. His shoulders even dipped a quarter inch in another totally human mannerism. "It continues to increase its power independently. And, despite bringing to bear every analytical technique we possess, the source of that power remains unknown."

"This mission shouldn't take long, Commander," Dorado inserted. "Coxcoxtli can keep working on the Clavis. Apart from Malus, he's the most familiar with it "

"Alright. Got that, Mal? Coxman?"

"Yes, sir!" the two acknowledged.

Dorado turned to Vesta, as she replaced Coxcoxtli at the helm. "Ensign?"

"Plotting the course now," replied the other. "Up and on the board, Commander." She dumped her data to Dayton's repeater array. Her voice was of one eager to show her CO what she could do.

"Excellent," said Dayton, concealing a smile. He turned to Dorado. "Have Doctor Ryan report to the Life Station sooner than possible. We'll need every qualified medic down there, even of the retro-hippie variety."

"Yes, Commander." Dorado quickly relayed the orders and then looked back at his commanding officer. "You'll be going as well, sir?"

"You know it, Captain." Dayton looked to the helmsman. "Ready, helm?"

"Ready, sir."

"Engage."

xxxxx

Three to one. Now that just wasn't fair. But since when had the Cylons ever fought _fair_? It just wasn't their forte. Starbuck closed in on the three Raiders flying in the usual chevron formation, as they swarmed the Earth ship, firing warning shots while herding her further out into space. Over the comm he could hear the Cylon flight leader demanding the shuttle follow them. Ten to one, the Earthlings didn't understand a word of the Colonial Standard in which the Cylons were issuing their demands.

If there were a combat patrol this close to Earth then it would follow that the _Ravager_ had to be even closer by than they had first thought. Presumably, once they had assessed the military capabilities of the planet's inhabitants, the Cylon commander would think he had all the time in the universe to decide whether to attack, conquer or annihilate the human-populated planet below, before finally heading back for Cylon. After all, it was unbeknownst to him that a Colonial Covert Operations Ship was hunting _him_. The Cylon commander, Mendax, had tried to conquer the Angylions in Morlais with a single Base Ship at his disposal, and a damaged one at that. So just maybe _this_ contingent of Cylons, presumably at full strength, would do the same . . . which would give the_Endeavour_ enough time to arrive and blow the Cylon Base Ship to Hades Hole. If luck was smiling on them.

In the meantime . . .

Waiting until the last possible moment to activate the Dynamo, he sited the Raider currently trying to bully the Earth ship into complying. As soon as his weapons system fired up, they'd be able to scan the sudden surge in power. He gambled that their attention was fully focused on the Earth ship, so as to give him a few extra moments. _Three, two, one_ . . . and now his only advantages were the quicker and more manoeuvrable Wraith, along with his superior skill. At least that was the way _he_ saw it.

"C'mon," he murmured, waiting another couple of microns until the Earth shuttle was completely out of range. Meanwhile, his peripheral vision showed one Cylon turning about, heading back towards him. With yahrens of intuitive and practiced skill, he grabbed the firing stud and, adjusting his own course, cut loose at the enemy craft.

"_What the_ . . ."

"_I can't see anything_!"

_"Hurry. Get your helmets on! Now!"_

Panicked voices from the Earth shuttle came over his comm, as the Raider was suddenly engulfed by the Dynamo's blast. Oh, he still remembered the blinding flash of light that could just about knock out a guy's eyeballs along with his motor function and consciousness and knew that while the Cylons would merely register the energy surge as a mixture of meson and tachyon radion, that the humans would still be seeing sparks. A look at the scanner told him that the Raider he hit and everything in her was dead in space, her engines and scanners useless. While not as good as "incinerated" in this instance it was a close second.

Slamming the stick forward, he adjusted course, beaming their scanners, just as the Raider charging him head-on sent a volley of laser fire towards him. He grinned as another salvo from the Cylon fighter cut through his ion trail, instead of him, before passing over him. _Dang_, he loved this ship!

"_There's another ship out there! Helping us_!"

"_Are you sure_?"

"_Well, we're not dead! I'm sure as hell sure of that_!"

"_Where is it_?"

"_I can't lock on! Scope's dead, Jess. It's jamming us_!"

"_Then maybe it's jamming them too_!"

"_Who could it be_?"

"_God willing, we'll find out_!"

"_Yeah? What if they're worse than the Cylons_?"

With the Goddess of Luck as his wingman, Starbuck quickly sited the third Raider that was turning about. In an instant, he realized it was just a little too close to the Earth ship for their safety. Even an _indirect_ hit of the Dynamo could leave the shuttle's human occupants completely paralysed. He knew that only too well, remembering being caught by Torg and Bex over the pirate asteroid in that very same situation. Not for the first time he found that his goddess was fickle.

Stuck between two enemy fighters, it wasn't a position _any_ pilot liked to be in. At least, relative to his position, they were above and below him. His old flight instructor would have additionally told him to keep the enemy on one side of his bird to keep them in his sights and to make it more difficult for them to trap him between them. Adjusting course, he did just that, keeping them on his starboard while moving them further away from the Earth ship. He hit his thrusters as they fell in, trying to get him in their sights. Then he broke left.

Cutting thrust suddenly, he turned his bird as tightly as possible, knowing that the Cylons could never predict his turn radius or rate accurately, having no experience with a Wraith. Thankfully, they'd programmed the Wraith's computer with all the data to hand on the Raiders of this period, thanks to both Jenny and Malus. No, they'd be calculating and responding to the data at hand, unable to predict _where_ their target would end up. At the same time, he'd lay even cubits down that the centurions would get back in formation as soon as they rendezvoused.

Microns later, he had come about and was charging towards them, both of them just within his sites and in range of the Dynamos' blast. He fired the weapon, as his warning indicator went off. They'd locked onto the wavelons detected! Slamming the stick to the right, he jerked spastically as a current shot through his body and his ship rocked violently. Half the indicators on his helmet went out and smoke began to fill the cockpit. He coughed at the acrid stench, knowing he was in big trouble. Unfortunately, this ship—built purely for reconnaissance, as far as they could tell—was not technically a fighter and could withstand little in the way of an attack.

"_Fr-frack_!"


	18. Chapter Four: Part One

Chapter Four

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Baker to Barstow Station Mars Base, come in!" Baker requested on the communicator from the flight deck of their Cylon shuttlecraft, as they drew closer to the Mars settlement. Like their fighters, it had three seats—two forward, with a third behind for the command centurion. It was narrower and lined with seats for transporting troops from orbit to ground missions. He glanced at Jolly and Lia, quirking his eyebrows in confusion at the lack of response from the base. Hell, if it was him down there—figuring on help being months away, instead of hours—he'd be screaming with amazement and kicking up his heels in delight! "Lieutenant Colonel Baker to Barstow Station Mars Base, come in! The cavalry has arrived, Barstow!"

"I'm not picking up any human life signs," Jolly reported, eyes fixed on the scanner. "But there is a very high radion reading near the base coordinates." He pointed to a flashing dot on the screen. "It sure looks like a reactor breach."

With a frown and a concerned shake of his head, Baker called back to Dayton, "Mark! They're not responding. Not only that, but Jolly's not scanning anybody down there . . . Maybe we're too late."

"That's impossible!" Dayton averred, stepping forward. "Cassie, how long until death from radiation poisoning?"

"Depends on the severity, but it could be days," she replied.

"Then this doesn't make any sense!" Dayton retorted.

"Maybe. . ." Lia hesitated. Out the ports she could see the planet's surface drawing closer, the first indications of a thickening atmosphere visible around its edge.

"Speak up, Ensign," Dayton told her. "There are no wallflowers on this team."

"Yes, sir," she replied, more confident. "Well, I heard that their probe scanned _us_. Maybe they left. We do _appear_ to be Cylon, after all"

"No . . ." Dayton shook his head, putting himself in their place. "If I was in their shoes, and my main reactor had failed and I couldn't fix it, Survival 101 would dictate that even Cylons would look good." He glanced at Paddy who had joined them.

"Live to fight another day." Ryan nodded his agreement. _"_Besides, we've had the whole planet under surveillance since we entered orbit. Nothing has launched from the surface. Zipola."

"I didn't necessarily mean they launched_,"_Lia corrected them."It's a big planet._"_

"Right. They had to have gone somewhere, for some reason_,_" Dayton theorized_._"Get Apollo's patrol to scan the area to rule out a surface evacuation. They couldn't have gone too far since we picked up their distress signal. Upload their scans to us here, as well as the _Endeavour_."

"Aye, Commander."

"What's happening, Carter?" Jess asked tersely, even as she personally looked over his shoulder at the control panel. The attack had ceased and the three Cylon ships now seemed to be adrift, apparently all systems down. Even their radio transmissions had ceased. She clenched her trembling hands into tight fists, willing her body to at least _act_ like the WASA director she was supposed to be.

"That other ship hit them with . . . _something_," Carter murmured, hurriedly trying to locate their supposed saviour on his scanners. A fleeting signal lit up his screen before it disappeared once again. "I don't know what. It's knocked out their power, communications, weapons—thank God for that— _everything_. Goddamn," he said excitedly, "I want to get me one of those! Those Cylons are sitting ducks!"

"And _us_ without our shotguns," Jess replied nervously, feeling the hair at the back of her neck stand up. She didn't like not being able to "see" this other ship. As much as she appreciated the rescue, it would be far more heroic at this point if their would-be rescuer could introduce himself . . . herself . . . itself . . . at least, as far as she was concerned.

"What's our status, Alan?" she asked.

"Well . . . our main communications are out. Engines are down. No power to the plasma induction coils." He flipped through more breakers and switches. "I think we can get moving again with our backup thrusters, but I've got no reading on fuel."

"Maybe I shouldn't have asked," grumbled Jess. She suddenly recalled her grandmother who had often said 'If life hands you a lemon, make lemonade!' Right now, she'd rather a Scotch.

Straight up.

"Main computer isn't responding," Carter went on. "Scanners . . . intermittent. Damn." The scope flickered out, came back, then died again. "Our life-support is still going, but one of our battery bank relays has shorted out. We're draining power pretty fast." The temperature in the cabin had already dropped a few degrees.

"How long?"

"We'll be totally without electrical power in . . . four hours, six minutes, unless I can do an emergency restart of engines."

"Solar cells?"

"Same song, second verse. The main relay is toast. So is the primary bus. Hey, at least we still have grav plating." He spewed a few colourful metaphors. "I might be able to reroute, in a while. If the rest of the circuit is intact."

"If we have anything to reroute _to_," she groused, watching him open the cover plate on his control panel. Inside was a total spaghetti of wires and circuit boards. He at once set to work, swearing as he went.

"Well, whoever it is isn't shooting at us. I'll take that as a plus, Jess." Carter got up, and headed aft, opening the small storage locker that held both tools and spare parts.

"But where is he? Why can't we detect him?"

"I'd say whoever it is has ECM of the likes that we've never seen before," Carter theorized, getting back into his seat and reaching over to adjust his scanner on the coordinates where he'd picked up the . . . _Beep_! He adjusted something and the unit stayed on. For now. "There it is!" And then: "It's gone again! It's like trying to get a lock on running water!"

"Let's try using the low-gain array to contact him," Jess suggested, shrugging when Carter looked at her in disbelief. "What have we got to lose?"

"Not a lot," Carter nodded, handing her a headset. "Go ahead."

"Alien ship, this is Jess Dayton, Director of the _World Aeronautics and Space Agency_, aboard the Earth shuttle, _Venture_. Come in." She paused, static filling her ears. "I repeat: Alien ship, this is Jess Dayton on the Earth shuttle, _Venture_. Come in, _please_."

"This . . . _guy_ . . . whatever . . . probably doesn't even understand English," Carter guessed.

Seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly as Carter made adjustments before their radio crackled to life.

"_I read you,_Venture. _This is Strike Captain Starbuck of the Covert Operations Ship,_Endeavour_, representing the Colonial Nation_." Abruptly relieved, she realized he was human. After a career of pigeon-holing people from their accents, she found that his accent was actually pleasing to her ear. If she wasn't mistaken, though a little stilted, it sounded almost . . . _Canadian_? Possibly Alberta border? Or maybe just a little south of that border . . . But with a touch of something else . . . She nodded at Carter as he once again tried to pick the ship up on scanner. _The line crackled and hissed._"_Do you copy,__Venture_?"

Then it abruptly occurred to her: "_Endeavour_?" Jess gasped aloud, her heart pounding in her chest as that one word stood out amongst the others. Oh, she knew about the Colonials from the Guardians, but for him to come from the _Endeavour_ . . . but what was it he'd said . . . a Covert Operations Ship? Could it be a coincidence? Or more likely some cruel twist of fate? Or a joke?

"_Yes, the_Endeavour_. Named for the NASA Space Shuttle_Endeavour_. . . which I believe_. . ." he seemed to be searching for the words, giving Jess the impression that English was not the speaker's _lingua mater_. "Uh . . . landed, and then had her two man crew of Captain Richard Dickins and Technician Humuhumunukunukuapua'a . . ."

The transmission suddenly sounded like some kind of tribal chant.

"You're breaking up, Strike Captain," Jess leaned forward, concentrating, not wanting to miss a single word about Richard Dickins, once her father's closest and most valued friend. Lauren had recently confirmed that the old _Enterprise-_class space shuttle had indeed landed after over a four decade-long absence, but to find out that "Dick" Dickins had _survived_. Where in God's name had they been all this time? Could her father . . .?

"_No, I'm not_," drawled the man in apparent amusement. "_That's really his name_."

She couldn't help but smile at his comedic timing. He had a way of putting her at ease . . . which immediately made her more suspicious, when she realized it. He had _said_ he represented the Colonial Nation, and the sophistication of his ship should have verified that . . . but there was a small part of her that—as much as it was difficult to admit—never actually expected them to show up. And the same went for the Cylons. It probably went along with twenty-odd years of being labelled a conspiracy theorist, a nut job, a religious whacko, a dope-head, the works. Despite meeting with the representative for the Guardians and being shown all the evidence, during the tough times, a gal got to a certain point where she began to doubt the accuracy of it all herself. She sighed. Yeah, and if the rest of her people suspected that, she'd be marched in front of them and have her WASA insignia dramatically ripped from her jersey. "Oh. Sorry."

"_So were we all. That's why we called him 'Hummer', instead. And call me Starbuck._" He paused, and she was certain she could hear sparking in the background, as though something was short-circuiting.

"Alright, Starbucks," she replied, tentatively, sharing a surprised look with Carter. "Call me 'Jess'."

"_I'd be honoured to, Jess. And it's just 'Starbuck'. I'm one of a kind. Anyhow, the way we understand it, Dickins and Hummer were incarcerated by the American government in some secure base called Cheyenne Mountain_ . . ."

"Bastards!" It slipped out.

"_Yeah_," Starbuck replied. "_It wasn't too popular with us either. But more critically at the moment, there's a Cylon Base Ship in the vicinity. Now, if the patrol we just tangled with is any indication, then I'm guessing she's closer than any of us actually realized_."

"We . . ." Jess paused, collecting her thoughts. "We may have picked her up on satellite, Starbuck," she confided carefully as Carter looked at her sharply. She shook her head at him, still not ready to put all her eggs in one basket.

Carter rolled his eyes at her and then reached inside the panel and clicked a fresh circuit board into place. He pressed a switch. The lights dimmed almost to nothing, then, snapping another bank of switches, he was rewarded with a _thump_ from somewhere aft. He gave her the thumbs up. "Engines coming back on-line, Jess. Flow sensor says we've got a cycle. Plasma pressure building. Power conversion curve looks good. We have power for all systems and landing."

"Computer?"

"Rebooting now. I think we're gonna make it."

"Good work, Carter." She patted his shoulder, before returning her attention to Starbuck.

"_Jess, tell me where the Base Ship is now and I'll send a_ . . ." She didn't understand the short phrase that followed, deciding he didn't know the English equivalent for it. ". . . _to the_Endeavour_so we can_ . . . _pit capital ship against capital ship_. _Believe me, you don't want to get in the middle of this_." His English was remarkably good.

"Sounds like we're already _in_ the middle of it, Starbuck," she replied evenly, noting that his _Endeavour_ was obviously a match for the Cylon Base Ship. "Tell you what. Come with us to our Space Centre in Kazakhstan and we'll exchange intelligence. I just received some intel on the _Endeavour_. The NASA shuttle with your man aboard, I mean. I repeat, follow us down. We need to establish some trust . . ."

"_And saving your astrums from the Cylons just now didn't do that_ . . ." he broke off the accusation, the disbelief in his tone clear. He seemed to be a master of "outraged indignation". Once again, she could hear sparking over the frequency. "_Not sure what I could do to top that_. .." And sarcasm.

"Look, Strik . . .uh, Starbuck, maybe you're accustomed to beings from other planets suddenly showing up, but for us this takes a bit of getting used to. You've dropped a bomb, to say the least. Seeing _who_ you are, _what_ you are . . . would cinch it for me, Strike Captain," she explained in what she hoped was a slightly conciliatory tone of voice. She didn't exactly want him as a prisoner . . . but he would make fine collateral, knowing that somewhere out there in their star system was another war ship capable of taking on the one she'd seen near Deimos. "Besides, I have an IL-class Cylon named Lucifer that's been spinning me a yarn for nigh on two months . . ."

"_Lucifer_?" he gasped. "_Holy Lords of Kobol!_ _Whatever you do, don't trust him_!"

"You know of him?" she asked in surprise.

"_Know of him? I taught him to play cards_," the other replied cockily.

"Are you for real?" she sputtered.

"_As real as your father, Mark Dayton. Commander of the Colonial Covert Operations Ship,_Endeavour_.__Who just happens to be my commanding officer_."

"My _father_ . . .how could . . ." Her chest hitched as a tidal wave of emotions hit her full force. All her life she had believed he was dead . . . That the_Endeavour_ had gone up with the International Space Station in 2010. Now what she had taken mostly for fact for the last forty years was falling apart! It couldn't be . . . he _couldn't_ be alive . . . And if he was, then what in _hell_had he been doing all this time?

"_Give me the coordinates, Jess, and then I'll follow you down. I'll bring you up to date on your father,_" Starbuck persuaded her. "_You have my word as a Colonial Warrior_."

"If I knew exactly what that was, I might be more . . .agreeable," she muttered to Carter, feeling completely overwhelmed. The truth was that after a lifetime of lies, recriminations, and . . . well, lies, that even though she was dying to hear about her father, she didn't grant trust easily, especially to strangers. Even though the Guardians had foretold the arrival of a cybernetic killer race called Cylons and had helped WASA enlist the Colonials' assistance, somehow the sudden reappearance of her father into the picture was like a curveball arriving from the stands. Straight into the side of her head.

"Yeah," Carter agreed, moving to position the shuttle for re-entry. He spotted the inert Cylon fighters as he did so. They were beginning to drift away from their position. "What about the Cylons?"

Jess asked the question.

"_If they don't burn up on re-entry, our guys will pick them off when they get here_," Starbuck replied. "_Whatever happens first_."

Carter nodded, apparently satisfied. "Strike Captain, we are now in re-entry mode. Do you copy?"

"_Affirmative_." There was a brief silence. "_Awaiting coordinates of Cylon Base Ship,_ Venture." Not very patiently, by the sound of his voice.

"Stubborn bugger, isn't he?" Jess murmured. The fact was that Earth was in danger and they were woefully ill-prepared for a Cylon attack. As intimidating as it was calling on this theoretical war ship and putting her trust in this unknown man, it was their only chance at defence for her beloved home, which loomed so beautifully before them, like a precious gem. "Alright, Starbuck. But I have your word of honour that you're coming with us?" she confirmed.

_"Hey, have I ever lied to you?"_

_Wise guy_. "Transmit coordinates, Carter." She waited a few moments. "Are you receiving, Starbuck?"

"_I am_ . . ." Then he groaned aloud. "_Oh_, _frack_!"

"Repeat, Starbuck. I didn't quite copy that last transmission."


	19. Chapter Four: Part Two

Whether it was a sixth sense or an instinct for survival that made Lauren realize that Rex was overdue, she wasn't sure. Regardless, as she waited in the Fullerton Station, she just had the distinct idea that she needed to move on.

_Now!_

She hunched her shoulders and curled her spine, trying to make herself appear shorter than her five foot, ten inches. The mousy grey-brown wig and oversized summer raincoat with several layers of extra padding certainly helped to disguise her usually svelte physique, inherited from her mother. Her pallor and exhaustion did the rest, making her appear far older than her years. God knows she felt it, as she wondered what had happened to her friend while she headed towards the elevator.

She faltered as she spotted a white-haired crone standing directly in her path, shaking her head. There was something inscrutable about the elderly woman, something that gave her pause . . . so she veered off towards the Fullerton Avenue exit, tempering her urge to flee and acting as normally as possible.

Suddenly, as she reached the exit, an arm slipped through her own. She startled as the same old crone smiled at her by her side.

"Give an old woman a hand down the stairs, Dear Heart?"

Lauren let out a relieved breath, smiling tentatively. Well, as disguises went, it couldn't be better. She nodded, patting the old lady's hand for good measure, and feeling a strange tingle suffuse her as they started down the stairwell. She held her breath as two large goons in dark suits headed up towards them. One held his sat-phone in his hand, and their eyes picked over the commuters carefully. The old lady coughed beside her, drawing their attention as they brushed by her. They didn't even spare Lauren a glance.

"Watch it, ya big oafs!" the old crone cursed them.

Moments later they reached the bottom and the hand slipped out of her arm. The old woman could never know what a help she'd just been. Lauren turned to smile and offer her a friendly "good day" before she headed out in the pouring rain, but unbelievably . . . the old crone was gone.

xxxxx

"Colonel Apollo?" asked Cree on his right wing, as they began their descent through the thin Martian atmosphere. Usually they would be using key centurion terminology and their vocal modulators to make themselves appear as Cylon as possible, but in this instance, they didn't want the missing Earthmen to spend a single micron doubting their origin should they be picking up this frequency.

"Yes, we see it." Apollo glanced at Dietra beside him. Several thorough sweeps had ruled out that the Earthmen had headed out to some secondary controlled environment across the surface. At this point, the colonel had every intention of ensuring his commander's safety as his advance patrol reconnoitred the area while Dayton's shuttle stood by. "A power source, Ensign. Near the equator."

"We're not scanning anything in the way of human bio-signs, Apollo," Giles added from the left wing.

"Negative." Dietra shook her head at Apollo, shifting in her space suit. Unconventionally, the entire patrol was outfitted for the inhospitable Mars conditions, should it become necessary that they leave their Hybrid fighters. All that was needed was to put on their helmets.

"Nor are we, Giles," the colonel replied, "but if they _are_ underground, the radion might be obscuring any life signs. At least at this distance."

"Right." Giles looked out his canopy. "Lords, what a desolate planet. Even Kobol didn't look this dead. Hard to imagine anyone settling here."

"Well, Kobol is more than twice the size and gravity, Giles. This place looks like it was blasted by asteroids or something like that." _Beep._ "Alright, we have the base on scanners. Some kind of transmitter is operating." _Beep. Beep_. "A navigational beacon, I think."

Dietra adjusted the instruments. "Yes. We have it."

"So do we, sir. Guiding us in, almost."

"Let's go."

They screamed across the empty deserts, making their way almost a third of the way around Mars until the base filled their scanners. At first, it seemed that there was nothing there.

"It's built into the side of the valley," said Cree, as they drew closer to the base. The planet's surface was deeply scoured by a long, winding valley that cut across a huge swath of the lower latitudes, reaching almost ten kilometrons below the mean surface elevation in places. As they drew closer, the navigation beacon grew stronger and the base came into view.

Built into the north side of a wide canyon and facing south, the base sported many solar processors, positioned to take advantage of the available sunlight. At various points along the cliff face were mounted cranes and other construction equipment, the surface above festooned with low buildings and an array of antennae. In the distance, several kilometrons from the installation, a huge conglomeration of machinery gave off a large heat signature and was slowly pumping vapours into the thin air. Projecting from the sheer cliffs below was a wide steel deck, supported by thick beams and about as wide as the _Galactica'_s landing bay ports. Slowing, all three Hybrid ships drew close and flew by.

"It's a landing bay of some kind," said Apollo. "No sign of any force field. It's not pressurized."

"Maybe with the power down, it's off," ventured Cree. "We're reading minimal power indicators inside, sir."

"Affirmative. Well, let's go in."

Taking the lead, Apollo manoeuvred the ship to line up with the blinking lights on the steel deck. Deftly, he and Dietra brought her in, setting her down on the landing deck. Cree and Giles followed him in, doing the same. Apollo slowed, coming to a stop a few metrons from a metal wall.

"Ship secured, sir," said Cree.

"Here too," Giles announced.

"Same here. I'm not reading anything but the thin local atmosphere. Helmets on. Let's go."

xxxxx

Dickins' eyes snapped open and he sat up. They were back for him. Somehow he just knew it. Despite the dense Plexiglas walls on his "controlled habitat" which severely muffled sound, he still could imagine the ominous sound of the stockade doors opening, followed by the boots clapping their way down the concrete hallway, as the echoes radiated through his long-tortured mind. There would be no casual conversation between the soldiers, no sign of rations or supplies that needed to be delivered. Just the impending silence that inevitably foretold what would happen next.

Hummer looked at him curiously from the next habitat. The technician was a quick learner. Dick wasn't sure if the Colonial was learning to read him, but Hummer was abruptly on his feet, waiting to see what would happen next. Fortunately, for the kid's state of mind, the soldiers had finally realized that the garbled language he spoke wasn't actually a new variation of Pig Latin, meant to infuriate them, and they were leaving him alone for the most part. _Unless_ they wanted to threaten Dickins.

The two gorillas stopped before the man-sized Habitrail. He noticed briefly that for the first time since he'd been moved there, that while gloved, they weren't dressed in Hazmat suits—apparently those were out of season. He let them wait for him, testing their mettle. Exactly long enough for the one on his right to turn his gaze on Hummer, a suggestive grin on his mug. Only then did Dick climb to his feet slowly but steadily, hands raised in front of him, and headed to the door. A small portal in the Plexiglas opened. He took a full ten seconds before putting his hands through the opening and letting them fasten the restraints, before he stepped back to wait for what happened next. _God, it was demeaning . . . _

"Dick . . ." Hummer mouthed agitatedly across from him.

Dickins just shrugged at the kid, letting him know that what would happen would happen, no matter the amount of bruises he earned between now and then. He was done.

"That's better, Old Man," one of the guards told him as he opened the habitat door and stepped inside with a satisfied nod. "Who said you can't teach an old dog new tricks, Larry. Huh?"

"Yeah, Vince," grinned Larry. "Even dumb animals can . . ."

A nano-second later, Dickins had leapt forward, clubbing the smart-assed McDonalds reject with his cuffed hands, and then kicking him in the gut as he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Then he instinctively pivoted backwards and ducked to dodge the swing that Larry had clumsily thrown his way. His elbow led his charge as it connected with Larry's nose with a loud crack. The guard tumbled to the floor. He made sure he wasn't getting up again with a two-handed blow to the neck, then took a step back, nodding in satisfaction.

"Didn't ya know, Larry," he grinned maniacally, his gaze tracking up to the surveillance camera that watched him 24/7. He could already hear the outer doors open again as boots pounded down the hall towards him. "Trix are for kids!"

xxxxx

"_I take it 'frack' is bad_?" Jess Dayton asked anxiously from the _Venture, _her words abruptly translated through his implanted languaphone. As much as Starbuck hated the idea of another implant, he had to admit that this piece of "electronic felgercarb" was working quite well. Especially in conjunction with the "Conversational English" that Ryan had been drilling into him for the last couple sectars. He'd absorbed more than he'd thought.

He couldn't help but let out a short puff of ironic laughter. The coordinates of the Base Ship that he had just traded _himself_ for were not that of the _Ravager_, but instead, the _Endeavour_. The Earthlings had spotted _his_ base ship. It was not the best deal he had ever struck, to say the least, but at least Commander Dayton wouldn't have his hide for contacting his daughter, notwithstanding the fact that he'd saved _her_ from becoming a Cylon prisoner. After all, Dayton had apparently blown his cover first. "Sufferin' Lord Sagan, what did I ever do to you?" he muttered darkly as he continued to work on the circuitry beneath the panel he had pried off, while sweat poured off of him. He'd cut power to the systems that had been lighting up his cockpit like the Caprican Summer Solstice Festival, but rerouting the more intrinsic ones was proving to be more difficult. _Click _went another breaker. At least he was no longer in danger of his pants catching on fire and he had navigation back. But life support was down seventy percent . . .

"_Sorry? I didn't get that, Starbuck_," Jess informed him. _"__Please repeat.__"_

"That's the _Endeavour_ you've spotted," Starbuck replied, wishing that Boomer or Apollo were on his wing right now, like in the old days. "_Not_ the Cylons."

"_The _Endeavour_'s over Mars_?" Jess verified.

"Thereabouts," he replied. His Base Ship should have been past the Red Planet by now, depending on what Apollo's patrol had picked up on that signal he'd detected.

"_We have lost contact with our station on Mars, Starbuck. Did your people have something to do with that_?"

He noted the suspicion in her tone of voice, as well as the underlying concern for the people that were ultimately her responsibility. After all, he hadn't missed the fact that she was apparently the director in charge of WASA now. "One of our patrols was checking out a signal that I picked up on my way here," he replied calmly. "If your people are in trouble, your father _will_ help."

The mention of her father seemed to discombobulate her for the moment. He just didn't get it. Why wasn't she happier about the reappearance of her father? And why was she so damned suspicious, even though he'd already saved their astrums?

"We're here to help, Jess. We came halfway across the galaxy to do so and we don't have a lot of time . . ." he coaxed her, while his life support systems dropped another two percent. The system wouldn't reset. _Damn!_

_ "__You really know my father__," she murmured uncertainly._

_ Starbuck wracked his brain for a moment, trying to think of some little tidbit that Dayton had confided during his endless stories about Earth. He needed a capstone of some sort. Something that only Dayton's family would know. Something . . . "Your father told me that when you were little, he had a pet name . . . a . . . a nickname for you."_

_ "__Yes__?" she asked, both anxiously and breathlessly._

_ "Sweetie-Ursus . . . uh . . ." He paused, realizing that he'd used the Colonial word. "No, that wasn't it . . . it was . . . Sweetie-Bear."_

There was a sudden intake of breath on the line. "_Alright. Follow us down. Match our re-entry window precisely_."

"I'll do my best to keep up," he replied, trying and failing to send a Unicom short burst transmission to the _Endeavour_ and then to Lu. He'd have to work on that on the way down.

"Interesting," Malus piped up. The IL had been conspicuously silent throughout the


	20. Chapter Four: Part Three

From the colonel's report, it appeared that Apollo's team had made it as far as the Mars Base airlock hatch and no further. So far, nothing they had tried had given them access to the compound.

"Why the _hell_ would they make getting into the Base so damn difficult?" Ryan groused on the flight deck of the shuttle. "Were they afraid Martians were going to come calling?"

"Can we hack it?" asked Dayton.

"Can we _what_ it?" asked Malus.

"Human slang, Mal. Can we interface electronically with the base's systems and open the airlocks remotely?"

"Oh, why did you not say so?" replied the IL. "The base's comm suite and transponders are still on-line, Commander. It should be simple to lock on and find a pathway into the base's computer system."

"Then let's do it, Mal."

"You intend to join me in this, Commander?" asked the IL, voice puzzled. "I thought I was to proceed independently . . ."

"Just an expression, Mal," sighed Dayton. He looked at Cassiopeia, shaking his head. She merely smiled back at him. It was like dealing with a five-year-old kid at times. "I mean 'proceed'."

"I see. How quaint. Proceeding, Commander," replied the IL. Plugging into the shuttle's comm-suite, he quickly connected with the _Endeavour_'s mainframe. From there, he isolated every frequency being used by the base and searched every one. One that was recently busy transmitting data home, was currently idle, waiting on the time-lag between Mars and Earth. The carrier, however, was still active, and after a brief lapse . . . "I am in."

"Good lad . . . I mean 'cyborg'," Ryan nodded his approval.

"Colonel Apollo, can you give me a close-up scan of the airlock hatch and control panel, please?" asked Malus. Apollo complied and Malus went to work, searching for command pathways in the base's computer. After almost five microns of failures and dead-ends, he discovered the subroutine he was looking for. The control panel for the airlock lit up, the various lights going through a variety of blinking patterns, followed by a loud _bleep_.

"_It's working_," said Apollo over the comm, as the metal door slid open. "_Thanks, Mal_."

"My pleasure, Colonel," replied the IL.

xxxxx

Every time Roach passed through those two sets of twenty-five ton steel blast doors in "America's Fortress", he felt eerily like he was in a coffin rather than any kind of military base. That said, it could have something to do with the air getting a bit "stale" at Cheyenne Mountain complex from the Air Force sharing space with not only its military counterparts, but also with US Strategic Command, The Defence Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, the Missile Defence Agency, not to mention the National Intelligence Agency. All they were missing was a _Starbucks_. Yes, nuclear attacks were still a potential threat, but the six hundred plus people working at Cheyenne Mountain more often concerned themselves with natural disasters, cyberattacks, and terrorist organizations. Which is apparently why two men who had flown in on what looked to be an old Orbiter Space shuttle, supposedly destroyed decades ago —according to the file Jess Dayton had sent him on his sat-phone—were being incarcerated here.

He strode through the complex, letting the base commander lead him and Mason to where the men were kept, rifling through the reports. One could be crushed under all this paper! Then again, after spending most of the night in DC struggling through an agenda that he was sure the Director of National Intelligence had thrown together to delay this moment, he'd had about all he could take of "the system". About ten paces behind him and still restrained, WASA's _Unity_ commander was in tow, but out of earshot. He'd waited all night and half of the day to see how the major would respond to these prisoners. "Can you give me the highlights, Colonel Bradshaw?"

"Of course, General," the base commander and commander of the Mission Support Group at Cheyenne replied. "I think you know the back story. They claim to have come to our solar system from another one several thousand light-years from here, through some kind of wormhole . . ."

"Twice, actually," Mason snorted. "Apparently, they'd have us believe that there's a veritable _garden_ of wormholes in space. All part of their ruse . . ."

Bradshaw pushed onward, ignoring the tobacco-reeking suit. "First man: Caucasian, physical age approximately sixty, six feet tall, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, claiming to be Captain Richard "Dick" Dickins, US Navy. I'm not sure if you remember, but Dickins was one of the astronauts who went up with the _Endeavour_ Space Shuttle back in July of 2010, when the International Space Station was subsequently destroyed by the World Islamic Front_,_which was, of course, linked to al Queda."

"Yes, I remember. He also was awarded a Congressional Medal of Honour for actions in Iraq. Hell of a service record."

"Yes, sir. Genetic testing and fingerprints confirm he's Dickins, but dental comparisons were useless. He's lost a number of teeth—possibly due to a fractured jaw at some point—which seem to have been replaced recently, and by a technology we cannot identify. Also, his physical age doesn't correlate with his chronological age."

"Is there an explanation for that?"

"_He_ attributes it to 'clean living'—his words—and a particular root he ate for thirty years," Bradshaw replied. "Our genetic scientists suggest he could have been injected with Dickins' DNA to throw us off track."

"A lot more likely," Mason inserted with a snort. "These vermin are clever little . . ."

"Retinal scans?"

"None available, sir. Retinal scans weren't in general use before 2017, and then only for new recruits. Captain Dickins' patterns were never on file."

"Convenient," muttered Mason.

"The ship, _is_ it the _Endeavour_?" Roach asked, wanting something conclusive to go on.

"Yes, General. It's been modified by technology that we can't as yet identify, but it's definitely the _Endeavour_." He watched as the general lifted a picture of the old Orbiter from the voluminous file. There were also pictures of some of the unidentified equipment the ship had been retrofitted with. "Serial numbers on many of the ship's original parts matched the records."

Roach glanced at Mason, raising an eyebrow. "So you think we have an _impersonator_ piloting a bone-fide Enterprise-class Space Shuttle with unidentifiable tech? Is that right?"

"Read the entire report, Roach. They've had forty years to develop that technology just for this moment, to make us buy their entire 'threatened by aliens' fable. Makes you wonder where WASA's been hiding that old shuttle all this time," Mason inserted softly, lighting another cigarette as he looked at the picture of the recovered shuttle. "And if the rest of the crew is still being harboured somewhere else or if they were killed back in 2010."

"Why?"

"To try and eliminate the evidence that NASA had been penetrated by international terrorists that cold-bloodedly planned the destruction of the ISS."

"Have we checked with Dickins' surviving family?" Roach asked Bradshaw. "Surely they could tell us if it's him or not? Conclusively."

"Both parents and an older sister are deceased, sir," began Bradshaw. "Records indicate his wife and four children . . ."

"However, imposed anti-terrorism security levels prohibits such contact, General," interjected Mason. "Besides, this man could have been groomed for years to impersonate Captain Dickins. He could fool Dickins' own mother. This is terrorism at its highest level. We're _finally_ tying WASA in to al Qaeda, proving beyond a doubt that they've evolved far beyond the goal of a global _jihad_." Mason blew out a cloud of smoke, his lip curled contemptuously. "Nobody outside Cheyenne know about these men and I aim to keep it that way."

"What about the President?"

Mason didn't answer.

"Go on, Colonel Bradshaw," Roach ordered, turning his back on the spook..

"As for the other man, his ethnicity appears similar to Polynesian, approximately five foot ten, one hundred and eighty pounds, late twenties, appears to speak no English, or any other language that we can identify. We've checked his DNA, fingerprints, dental impressions and retinal patterns against every database in the world. Nothing, sir." He waited a beat as the other leafed through the file. "He answers to 'Hummer'. Dickins can communicate with him in a very limited fashion, which appears to frustrate both prisoners."

Mason snorted. "If you make him scream for mercy long enough, I'm sure he'll eventually come up with a language we can understand."

Bradshaw stared at the intelligence man distastefully. "They could be telling the truth, Director Mason. I, for one, haven't ruled out that possibility. There _are_some interesting differences in both Hummer's hemochemistry and skeletal structure," he paused as the Director of National Intelligence snorted once again, "but again Mason's scientists suggest that these things have been genetically altered to confuse us."

"Doesn't seem to take much to confuse us, Bradshaw," Roach smiled thinly over Mason's head at the colonel. "After all, we're only military. So, what's the likelihood that these men _are_actually telling the truth?"

"That's incredibly naïve, Roach, and not what I'd expect from our Chief of Staff," Mason sneered. For the first time he cast a glance back at the _Unity_commander being escorted behind them.

"I'm a military man, Mason. Sometimes the least complicated answer is the right one," Roach told him, noting that Bradshaw nodded his agreement. "What do you think, Bradshaw? Do _you_ believe Dickins?"

"That's hardly relevant," Mason protested, losing a little of his calm veneer.

"My gut says he's telling the truth," the base commander replied, sparing the spook a contemptuous look.

"Or he _thinks_ he's telling the truth," Mason added. "The programming can . . ."

"Stow it, Mason!" Roach narrowed his eyes dangerously as they came to a stop in front of the anteroom set up in front of stockade. Security seemed to be tighter than usual, which wasn't surprising with National Intelligence being involved. The guards snapped to attention in front of the officers and he returned their salute. "I've had just about enough of your rhetoric, Director."

Mason smiled. "Remember your place, General."

"Remember _yours_, Mason. Your office still answers to President Gibson."

"Of _course_ we do," Mason replied, leaving the other men with the impression that he didn't really believe it.

"What's all this?" Roach asked, indicating the anteroom and the additional security.

"Standard procedure, General," Bradshaw replied. "If there is any chance they've come here from another planet or solar system, then they need to be isolated in a controlled habitat."

"Standard procedure?" Roach asked.

"Decontamination, irradiation, complete medical analysis and quarantine," Mason replied with a twisted smile. "We don't need another pandemic on our hands. Last year almost five million people died from H5N1."

"Actually, today is the day the scientists took them off quarantine. They're clear. It's been six weeks since they've grown any unusual organisms on their weekly cultures," the base commander reported. He coded open the anteroom door, motioning inside. Within was a control station, a sanitation station and a window into the inner habitat. "General?"

"I'll catch up to you later, Mason," Roach told the Director of National Intelligence coldly, as the guards with the WASA major caught up to them. "I want to see them without the benefit of your . . . input."

"I think you're losing your objectivity, General Roach. That's not what we expect of the Air Force Chief of Staff. The President will be surprised to hear that," Mason returned.

"I'm not afraid of your influence, Mason," said the general, almost in a snarl.

"Insubordination . . ."

"Sticks and stones," Roach snorted, signalling for the guards to precede him through the door with the _Unity_ commander. He stepped through behind Bradshaw, letting out a long breath when the reinforced door shut behind him. "Land sakes alive . . ."

"_Yes_, sir." Bradshaw let out an involuntary snort of agreement, while checking the readouts on the control station, making sure that the negative pressurization of the room was functional, before glancing at the detained man with faint interest.

Grae moved over to peer curiously through the window to the inner rooms. "Are they sick or something?"

"No, we're making sure that they don't make _us_ sick," Bradshaw replied, opening the habitat door.

"_Our_ sickness started long before those two showed up," the astronaut opined.

Roach frowned at the astronaut, before finally nodding. "Okay, Bradshaw. Let's see them."

"This . . . way," Bradshaw returned haltingly as he spotted the guards stepping through the sliding door to one of the habitats. Both men looked liked they'd been in a bar fight. They immediately snapped to attention. He frowned as they paced down the short corridor to the Plexiglas rooms. "What exactly . . .?" His words broke off when he looked inside.

"What the hell is going on here?" Roach demanded.

xxxxx

About all Dayton could do was wait impatiently on the shuttle, while Apollo's advance patrol entered the airlock of the Mars Base. "Why do I get the feeling that this isn't going to be the quick in and out mission that I first thought it would?" he asked Ryan.

"Don't worry. I'm sure Starbuck and Lu have things well in hand over Earth," Paddy replied flippantly.

Dayton winced.

"C'mon, what could go wrong?" Ryan asked, this time in earnest.

"We're talking about _Starbuck_ here," Dayton reminded him. "Remember, there's a Cylon Base Ship out there."

"And so far our patrols haven't seen hide nor hair of it," Ryan returned.

"They're in, Commander," Jolly told them from the flight deck.

"Good." Dayton nodded.

"From now on, you will have complete access to all areas of the base, Colonel," Malus informed Apollo over the comm.

"_How so_?" asked Apollo.

"Access to almost every area of the base is controlled by biometric security protocols. Handprints, retinal scans, and voice index locks."

"A little overkill, wouldn't you say?" Ryan rolled his eyes.

"Apparently, one just doesn't know _who_ will end up on their door step these days," the IL returned, before adding, "I have implanted your biometric data into the computer's memory banks, Colonel. You now have full access. Even the high security areas."

"_Thanks, Mal_," said Apollo. "_I think you'd better do the same for all of us_."

"Understood," replied the cybernaut, reconnecting himself to the system. "Done."

"What's the radiation reading, Malus?" asked Dayton.

"The radion levels inside the corridor are elevated, Commander. Dangerously so. The space suits will offer protection, of course, but I suggest minimizing exposure."

"Don't get too far ahead, Apollo," Dayton instructed him. "I wager the reception will be better if at least a couple of us are speaking the same language. We'll be down in five."

"_Yes, Commander_," said Apollo. "_We'll make sure the area is secure_."

"I thought this was a _rescue_ mission, _not_ an invasion," Ryan breathed.

"Easy, Paddy," Dayton told him. "They're up against the wall. The last thing they'll be expecting to see is a rescue team."

"Which makes them unpredictable . . ." Ryan slowly nodded.

"And potentially dangerous," added Dayton. "Stay alert down there, Apollo."

"_Going in now, Commander_," said Apollo.

xxxxx

Atmospheric entry was one of those inevitabilities that a Colonial Warrior didn't give much thought to, especially after his society had recorded thousands of yahrens of space travel. However, flying a shot-up Espridian bird put a new light on "same old, same old". Sweat ran off Starbuck in torrents from the heat and his tension as the Wraith shuddered under the stress. It made him wonder if her heat shield had been damaged or he was outside the proper entry window and she was going to break up. Ten to one the warning indicators would be going off like a klaxon, if he hadn't deactivated them along with the other damaged systems. If it wasn't for the fact that his life support systems had dropped to sixteen percent, he would have aborted and rendezvoused with the _Endeavour_ instead.

_Lord, I'll do anything you ask tomorrow, if you just get me through this today . . ._

Then the vibration of the Wraith gradually disappeared and things began to cool off. According to his instruments, he was now well inside Earth's atmosphere. The drag on his ship was levelling off in what appeared to be dense cloud cover. A quick check of his scanner showed the _Venture_ adjusting course to head for a major landmass . . . and about a dozen targets heading to intercept them.

"Lords of Kobol," he muttered as he matched vectors with Dayton's ship, while the interceptor craft drew nearer. This was _Earth_, and he, Starbuck, was actually about to land on the blue-green planet. What the whole Fleet had struggled to achieve, he would be the first Colonial to do. . . well, okay second, including Hummer. _And remember how that turned out, Bucko._He shook the cynicism off, revelling in the moment for just a little bit longer. For a micron, he wished his father could be here to see and share the moment with him. Then it occurred to him that if he didn't get a message off to the _Endeavour_ about all this, he'd be in some serious trouble. _Let's see, if I reroute the circuit . . ._

The approaching targets were now clearly identifiable as atmospheric craft of some kind, and their scanners were searching the air, not locking on a target yet. They hadn't picked them up, but obviously knew they were there. A quick check revealed that they were armed, just like the escort he'd spotted on his scanner when the _Venture_ had launched . . . which was kind of unfriendly, in his un-Earthly opinion and rather vulnerable position. It just wasn't sitting well with him. Still, there had to be some reasonable explanation, he supposed. And if he asked, Jess might just give it to him.

"Uh, Dayton," he opened the line between them, falling back on how he usually addressed her father. "Is it routine to have an armed escort when you leave or re-enter your atmosphere?"

"_Routine_?" she asked.

"I'm scanning twelve single-pilot atmospheric craft cruising at 1500 kilometrons per centar just clearing the landmass we're heading towards, en route towards us. They're armed." He realized he'd lapsed into Colonial Standard once or twice again and shrugged it off. "They haven't scanned us yet. . ."

"_PAK FA fighters_!" Jess exclaimed. "_Damn, General Surkov! He sold us out_!"

"Come again?" Starbuck asked, abruptly checking his life support again. Fifteen percent and still dropping. Still no progress on getting off a short-burst transmission to the _Endeavour_. He had communications, but for some elusive reason . . . _Damn!_

"_Starbuck, that weapon you used on the Cylons . . . can you use it on them_?"

"I . . . uh, somehow don't think your father wanted our introduction to Earth to be _me_ taking out a dozen of your fighters. In fact, I'm sure he said it would make a_bad_first impression."

"_Those are Russian Air Force fighters_!"

"Jess, you've lost me, they're not really going that fast," Starbuck returned, checking his scanner once again.

"Oh for crying outloud _. . .Russia! It's a country neighbouring Kazakhstan where our closest Space Centre is_!" Jess explained. "_They don't want us landing there_!"

His readouts told the story. As much as his inclination was to toy with the fighters a bit—set off their proximity alerts while they scrambled to figure out _what_he was and _where_ he was, while the _Venture_ hightailed it away—navigation was still sluggish, countermeasures were down by forty percent and his life support was way too low to play the hotshot. He grimaced. It was a real shame; fun like that was hard to come by these days . . .

"Look, umm . . .Jess . . . my bird was hit up there. My life support is failing . . . and if I fire at _any_ Earth ships, my life won't be worth living when your father catches up with me." He paused as he picked up an incoming message on the _Venture_'s frequency.

"_Venture_, _this is Baikonur Control. Orlov here, Dayton_." The man's voice was strained, the accent unusual. "_We've been stormed by Spetsnaz Forces. Colonel General Surkov has sent a squadron of Sukhoi PAK FA's to escort you, and the unidentified ship they picked up on satellite with you, here. If you do not comply, he promises there will be_ _consequences_. _Don't put your finger in his mouth, my friend_."

"_Oh, just peachy_!" Jess growled.


	21. Chapter Five: Part One

Chapter Five

As he listened to Dayton's daughter in the _Venture_ surrender to the Russian task force, Starbuck was beginning to get the idea that maybe Earth wasn't exactly the shining beacon of brotherhood that they'd all been hoping for. His life support systems dropped another two percent as the fighters intercepted them. Struggling with his ship to send off an encoded short-burst transmission, he didn't much care if it was Apollo, Luana or the _Endeavour_ who picked it up. He was obviously in over his head and needed some help. Again, the Wraith's systems stubbornly denied him.

"_Major Sharova, I briefly picked up signal that I can't identify, but_ _I can still not locate the second craft on radar. It's like cow licked it away_."

Starbuck put a hand to his languaphone, certain he must have heard at least _part_ of that wrong. Either that or he should be scanning for flying bovines.

"_Acknowledged, Lieutenant_. _Enemy craft, identify_," came a brisk order over the comm.

It was worth noting that they used "enemy" and not "unidentified"_._ It could be they were lumping him in with WASA, who they obviously weren't on the friendliest terms with, or they had decided he was a separate threat. Even at sixty percent, the Wraith's countermeasures were still confounding them in the dense cloud cover. It would have been amusing to continue to watch them scramble to try and physically find him, if the inevitability factor of him ending up in their custody didn't enter into the equation.

"This is Strike Captain Starbuck of the Colonial Nation," he replied, nodding as he remembered Ryan's coaching on Earth protocol. "We come in peace. We mean you no harm."

"_What is . . . Colonial Nation_? _And Starbucks_ . . . _is this American joke_?" the voice returned after a long moment. "_Very funny. Ha ha. I blow up from laughter_."

"_Starbuck_, it's a . . . a _name_!" he breathed in frustration. Why did everybody from Proteus to Earth have trouble with that? "We're from another . . . star system light-years away from your own," he tried to explain. "We've come to help defend you against a Cylon attack."

"_What is this . . .Cylon_?" the same voice demanded, even brisker.

"_Major Sharova, this is Director Dayton from WASA. The Cylons piloted the alien fighters that fired on us in orbit_," Jess inserted from the _Venture_. "_There is the space equivalent of an aircraft carrier filled with Cylons out there somewhere that's preparing for an Earth attack_! _If your intelligence satellites picked up Strike Captain Starbuck saving our butts and repelling their attack, then General Surkov already has an idea of what I'm talking about_. _God knows I've tried to convince both your military and your government of it for years!"_

"_I don't need your valuable directives, Director Dayton_," the Russian Major replied. "_Strike Captain . . . Starbucks . . . or whatever your name is . . . I order you to . . . uncloak. See. I too can be funny_."

"Uncloak?" Starbuck repeated, shaking his head at the reluctant mental image. He arrives on Earth, naked. Possibly the _second_worst way to make a first impression, right behind blasting the Russian task force with his Dynamo. "Hey, that's getting a little personal, don't you think? I mean shouldn't we at least become friends, first?" And then as an afterthought: "Besides, I'm . . . uh . . ." He racked his brain for the Earthspeak word. "Uh . . . wedlocked."

"_It means disable your countermeasures, Starbuck_," Jess clarified, with a hint of a chuckle in her voice. "_Whatever your ship has that prevents us from scanning it_. _It's blocking their equipment, as well."_

Starbuck sighed, accessing the system. Suddenly, he _did_ feel naked. "Affirmative. Got it." Mentally, he could picture them dissecting his Wraith with their more limited equipment, and tried to imagine what they would glean from an Espridian ship that was more sophisticated than even current Cylon or Colonial technology. He reached over and shut off the ship's ECM suite, then squirmed in his seat as he waited for them to close in, to target him with their weapons.

"_Obaldet_!" the Russian finally murmured over the line, almost reverently.

Then they did close in.

xxxxx

Quickly, Apollo's team moved through the Mars base, feeling their way through and checking any compartments or rooms that they passed by, looking for survivors. The lighting, while effective, was dim. Red panels, set into the walls, flashing slowly, leading Apollo to deduce that whatever auxiliary power systems they used had been activated after the accident. From the looks of the equipment outside the base, he'd guess the backup was either the solar arrays or wind turbines.

By Colonial comparison, the place was a maze. Apollo couldn't adequately express his relief when they came across some kind of operations station. He pressed his palm to the scan plate and the door obediently opened. They looked around, scanning, and quickly located a base schematic with a multi-station tactile user interface suspended in the middle of the room. While the system was alien to him, it had a certain logic that impressed him as he tapped on transparent screens and watched the indicated area suddenly magnify. A micron later, it spit out possibly relevant and important data that was, unfortunately, in Earthspeak. It seemed the data could be accessed from each station, making it more user friendly. Yeah, it would be brilliant if he could understand it.

Luckily, about then Dayton and the rest caught up.

"Where are we at?" Dayton asked, entering the room. He let out a low whistle as he looked around. "Hey, not too shabby."

"Stuff we only dreamed of, Mark," said Baker. "Imagine if those slackers hadn't wasted so many years."

"Oh yeah," nodded Dayton, studying the layout of the control stations. "Windows 2045. The more things change, the more they stay the same."

"You understand it?" Jolly asked, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Well, let's just say I'm not as lost as I was afraid I'd be," Dayton smiled wryly, before glancing at the colonel. "By the way, we noticed a storage locker near the airlock. According to the data Malus hacked from the Base's computer, it usually holds space suits and survival gear. It was empty."

"Maybe so, but so far, we've found no survivors, Commander," Apollo replied, before indicating the structural map. "It's some kind of graphic layout of the base. I understand the concept, but I can't make heads or astrums of it."

"Ooh, very James Bond," Ryan inserted, sounding awed, while doing his best Sean Connery impression. "You'd think by now it would be voice-activated three-dimensional holographics."

Baker chuckled. "Yeah, you can tell they're not government-funded anymore. No goodies from Q."

"Disappointed?" Dayton asked, heading over to a centralized station with several monitors on the walls. All dark, he began going through the process of reinitialising the system. Some screens came to life, some stubbornly ignored his prompting.

"Maybe a little," Ryan replied, letting his fingers do the walking. "Okay, a lot. I mean hey, I wanted transporters. 'Beam me up, Scotty', and all that cool, futuristic sci-fi stuff. Now where's the main reactor?"

"I'll race ya," Baker moved to the opposite side to help, while images and screens changed at a furious pace. "Come to Papa."

Malus looked at Apollo, his posture indicating confusion. Apollo shrugged back.

"Check to see if there's any kind of nuclear or other emergency shelter on the base, just in case they were planning ahead . . . _Papa_," Dayton instructed.

"I'm on it, Sonny," Baker rejoined from the graphic blueprint. "Mal, how about you upload all this. I don't fancy taking it with me."

Dayton smirked at the remark as the screens came on line. The images were total snow at the main reactor, surveillance probably blown out by the blast. A few screens later he saw the first signs of the carnage. Three bodies in a dimly-lit corridor. Poor devils who had somehow made it through the blast doors before they closed, horribly burned, maimed . . . the walls blackened from the smoke, fittings warped by the heat. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, holding it for a moment. There was no way that anybody could be alive down there . . . but they'd have to make sure, if only for conscience's sake.

"Lords," Apollo murmured, falling in beside Dayton. "Can we get a reading on radion levels?"

"Here," said Ryan, at another station. It was the plan of the base, the reactor area highlighted in flashing red. Several areas were likewise highlighted, the intensity of the red diminishing concomitant to the distance from the source.

"Looks deadly," said Apollo.

"It is. From what data is coming in, it looks like the radiation level inside the reactor room is at well over a thousand rads per hour."

"I take it that's bad?" asked Apollo, unfamiliar with the Earth measurements.

"Cook your bacon in nothing flat. Real crispy."

"Any clue as to what happened?" asked Dayton.

"The engineering log is still open, so . . . yeah. Looks like a valve jammed in the reactor cooling system. They couldn't free it in time. The pressure and heat built up until the system ruptured violently, trashing the reactor room and damaging the control systems."

"Wait a cotton pickin' minute . . . shouldn't the blast doors have closed?" Baker asked.

"You'd think so," Ryan murmured, looking through the log. His finger traced the words, making everybody realize the hippie-beach bum was obviously a speed reader. "But for some reason they didn't . . . Lord, thunderin' Jaysus . . ." He shook his head in dismay. "They had to manually close the damned doors! They malfunctioned!"

"Malfunctioned?" Dayton echoed in disbelief. "What the hell . . .?"

Ryan found a video file and replayed it. It showed the main power room, red lights flashing, klaxons blaring, and the crew scrambling to get the blast doors closed. Each passing centon seemed tortuous as brave men and women toiled to save the rest of the base from irradiation at the risk of their own lives. Finally, the main anti-radiation doors started sliding closed. People were screaming in panic, scurrying to get out, when the whole unit seemed to blow apart. The picture went dead. "Holy crap. Those guys . . ."

"The whole place must be saturated," said Apollo.

"Yeah, but large areas _have_ been sealed off, Apollo," said Ryan. "Blast doors shut and vented to the surface. About . . . thirty percent of the base still seems habitable."

"Can we check for life signs?" asked Lia.

"Perhaps I could be of some assistance, gentlemen?" Malus asked.

"Mal, sometimes you ruin all the fun." Baker frowned, redoubling his efforts at the console.

"Would it not be advantageous to accelerate . . .?" the IL queried.

"Lia's on the right track," Dayton inserted. "See if you can check for life signs, Mal. Are any of these poor souls still alive?"

"Got it!" Ryan exclaimed triumphantly. "The main reactor is on Sub-Level Three, Section Eight." He looked through the transparent board to Baker. "Bob?"

"There's a fallout shelter too . . ." Baker paused as an indicator flashed. He punched the screen with his index finger, watching the display. "In the basement. Sub-Level Four, accessed through a short tunnel and about as far from the reactor as possible. But . . . " Once again he deviated, researching another warning indicator as they all waited anxiously "The tunnel is collapsed."

Jolly groaned aloud.

"I would theorize that vibrations caused by the explosion in the reactor area weakened a fissure in the rock," Malus offered. "There are no life signs registering from within."

"I wonder how many were in the tunnel?" Lia whispered.

"Maybe it collapsed before they even tried to make it to the shelter." Jolly touched Lia's hand lightly in support and she gave him a weak smile.

Baker frowned. "Hey, hold the phone, folks. Something's going on . . .this is kinda weird."

"What?" Apollo asked.

"An airlock just opened on the opposite end of Sub-Level Four. Somebody just left the base."


	22. Chapter Five: Part Two

At the now secure Baikonur Space Centre in Kazakhstan, Colonel General Surkov gradually became aware that his mouth was gaping, hanging open rather idiotically. He gazed in disbelief at the robotic being before him. Head like a light bulb, constructed like a human, wearing a luxurious robe, and apparently fluent in every language that had been spoken at the Armstrong Lunar Base, this cybernetic creation was so far advanced beyond anything he had ever seen that there were only two possible conclusions: Either it was indeed from outer space or he was being duped.

The colonel general didn't like being duped.

"Open it," he ordered Colonel Katko. She and her men were flanking not only the robot, but Sergei Makshin Orlov, the Executive Director for WASA. Many of the security guards that WASA had employed had been GRU plants, thus had helped neutralize those actually loyal to the Space Centre while keeping casualties to a minimum. It had been Director Borodin's master plan, put in place over the last five years. He had to admit that it had been effective.

"Open it?" Lucifer repeated back to him, his Russian conspicuously good for an 'alien' life form. "Colonel General Surkov, I am a premier example of the most highly advanced form of cybernetic sentience in all the universe, not a . . ."

"Colonel General Surkov, I'm done warring with you," Orlov blew out a breath of frustration. "It's pointless, like fish hitting ice. Do you think that if you 'open it' that there will be a little man inside? This is not a science fiction film. It is _real_! This is what we have been warning you about for decades! This is a _Cylon_! Some kind of an advance scout. And more like him just attacked the _Venture_! They have arrived, just as we have been telling you for ages! We have a satellite recording of their war ship near Mars!" Orlov raved, his face flushing with anger and desperation. "Just look at it!"

"Technically, I am actually _not_ a Cylon, but one of their constructs. Their best one, truthfully," Lucifer inserted, his lights flashing as he processed information. "I would be invaluable . . ."

"I agree with you, Colonel General," Director Borodin was suddenly behind them, but keeping his distance. The way the director for Russian Intelligence could suddenly appear unexpectedly, in utter silence, was disconcerting. "We should open it up. Within, I am certain we would find recently developed American technology," he snorted loudly, "if not an American, in actual fact."

"And in the process you will destroy it!" Orlov argued, his face flushed.

"A calculated risk," Borodin replied indifferently. "We follow procedure for a reason, Sergei Orlov. Did you decontaminate it on your lunar base?"

"Of course, we did!" Orlov exclaimed. "Every decon procedure there is. Not a microbe was found . . ."

"I guess not . . ." Borodin inserted with a sneer.

"Director, you know that I would no more put my people at WASA at risk, than I would the rest of our world population!" Orlov reminded him.

"Now see here . . . " Lucifer protested, managing an aggrieved tone of voice.

"This satellite transmission of their war ship, Sergei Orlov . . ." Colonel General Surkov hesitated. Orlov had been a good man when he'd been in the Russian Air Force fifteen years before. It had been unfortunate when the officer and pilot had resigned his commission and joined WASA to follow the dreams of his youth.

"My people are studying it now, Colonel General," Director Borodin swiftly inserted. "Initial assessments imply it is fabricated." He made a growling sound low in his throat as if he would spit. "It looks like something from a Revell model kit for an American television series."

"Do not tell lies, Director!" Orlov berated him. "It is _real_, Colonel General! As is the Colonial pilot that saved the _Venture_!"

"Colonial pilot?" Lucifer echoed. "Interesting."

"Yes, the pilot," Borodin smiled grimly as a team of men came towards them dressed from head to toe in environmental suits, designed to protect them from possible biological or radiological contamination. One man was lagging behind, his helmet still off. He raised his head incrementally slowly, before letting out a loud sneeze and then wiping his nose on his glove. Borodin chuckled in a strange perverse pleasure. "The decontamination team appears to be ready to receive the pilot. And our scientists are standing by."

"NO!" screamed Orlov futilely. "The Colonial pilot is our most valuable ally! You cannot treat him like this!"

"Take it!" Borodin ordered, pointing a finger at the 'Cylon construct' and then turning to go. "I will direct the pilot's decontamination and interrogation personally."

"Colonel Katko, you will attend," Surkov ordered her.

"Yes, Colonel General," she replied, saluting smartly.

"Director Borodin, for a human in such a powerful situation, I am disappointed that you would not enquire as to the benefits of an alliance between your great nation and mine," taunted Lucifer. "Especially since you have detected one of our ships already with your limited scanners."

Borodin paused to study the IL thoughtfully. "Delay the analysis of this . . . Cylon construct until I have more time to debrief him." He nodded as he strode away, Colonel Katko on his heels. A moment later, the IL was led away.

"_Wait_, Colonel General!" Orlov pleaded, lowering his tone and waving a hand as a scowling Surkov turned to go. "There is something which you do_not_know."

"Eh?" Surkov paused, waving a hand at the soldiers poised to take the robot. "And what might that be?"

"Thirty-five years ago, when the American President Curtis was in office, WASA was given access to long-buried information, technology and evidence that aliens had actually landed on Earth back in 1947, which accelerated our space program to where it is today." He didn't add that generous contributions to President Curtis' lagging re-election campaign had preceded this. "We have concluded that the ship that crashed on the Moon, the one we recovered Lucifer from, is virtually identical to the one that crashed in Roswell, in the American state of New Mexico."

"Do not toy with me, Sergei Orlov, or I will put you in the lip!" Surkov threatened.

Orlov raised his hands conciliatorily. "I am not, Colonel General. I swear on my mother's grave! Those aliens that crash-landed at Roswell, New Mexico back in 1947 were Cylons. Now if we could retrieve data from the Cylon fighter, it would prove what happened there . . ."

"It was almost a hundred years ago, Orlov. What does it matter, now?"

"Because for ninety-eight years, American intelligence has kept this information from the military, even when it was right under their noses. Instead, they encouraged the tales of little green men that expired." He curled a lip as if he found the phrase as distasteful as the rest.

"Even when WASA recently submitted our findings," Orlov continued, "the information once again found its way to the desk of their Director of National Intelligence. Mason once again buried it. Likewise, Director Borodin is aware, but appears to be doing his best to destroy the evidence. To destroy the Cylon." He lowered his voice, looking over his shoulder should the intelligence man reappear once again. "I believe that these cloak and dagger knights are working together, Colonel General."

Surkov snorted loudly. "You would have me believe that Russian and American intelligence are trying to cover up the existence of a threat against Earth? What would be their motivation?"

"The Guardians, the beings that first brought all this information to our attention, spoke of a powerful and evil force in the universe that sought to corrupt and then control all organic life. _These_Cylons were of that being's creation. Once living, sentient, reptilian life forms, they invented a cybernetic army that eventually turned on them and destroyed them. Lucifer, and others similar to him, is what the original Cylon race has evolved to. If this force of darkness could not enslave us, he would instead destroy us. He would use his Cylon army to do so. I believe he has already enslaved some humans on our planet and corrupted them to do everything within their power to stop us. Director Borodin, Director Mason, Chairman Whatley of the United Kingdom . . ."

"Bah!" Surkov sounded as though he had something caught in his throat. "It sounds like a comic book plot, Sergei Makshin!"

"Of course. It _sounds_ ridiculous, but . . ." he let out an explosive breath. "For the love of the Motherland, Alexei Andreivich . . ."

"_You!_" Surkov roared, pointing a shaking hand at the other. "You go too far!"

"Talk to her!" Orlov pleaded. "She will tell you! Has she _ever_ lied to you before? You know she has not!"

Surkov raised a hand, ready to strike the other man. Ovlov didn't flinch. He merely held his head a little higher. Surkov clenched a fist tightly, before turning on his heel and pacing away.

xxxxx

The three ships put Carl Fraser, of ABC News in Chicago, in mind of an old Stealth Bomber, although the lines were more elliptical. He accessed the old file he'd received almost six weeks before, comparing that ship, which WASA had then claimed crashed on the Moon, to these machines. To the anchor's eye, they looked damned close. Of course, the Network heads hadn't let him run that earlier story, claiming that WASA was up to their old tricks again, trying to drive fear into the hearts of American viewers. Besides, as they had pointed out, it wasn't like he could fly up there himself to verify the information.

"You got this from WASA satellite imagery?" he asked again, confirming the source. As LM Dayton had mentioned, the ships appeared adrift in Earth's orbit at strange angles to one another, and in no obvious formation. As far as the satellite's scanning could determine, there was no one aboard, nor active power.

"In from Guiana Space Centre," Dayton replied, her tone clipped. "They were monitoring the mission."

He looked up at her from his desk, noting the dark circles under her eyes and her obvious nervousness as her eyes constantly darted around. "You look like shit, LM."

"Well, at least I don't have to eat it for three squares a day, Carl," she replied acerbically, waving a hand around at his expansive and elegantly decorated office as she bold-facedly called him a brownnoser. "You already have the file on the Cylons. How many times have I sent it to you at this point?"

"I know . . ." he muttered, not for the first time in his high profile career torn between what he could see in front of his eyes and what he had to tell the masses. "_Look_, LM . . ."

"No, _you_ look, Carl!" she spat. "The Cylons are _here_! Are you really going to sit by and do nothing while National Intelligence continues to cover it up? The American people have a right to know!" Her hazel eyes blazed at him. "If this satellite image got through, then there are going to be plenty more sightings around the globe. It's only going to be a matter of time, Carl. This _could_ be an exclusive . . ." she dangled it tantalizingly before him.

"I have my career to think about, LM," he replied frankly. "And a family . . ."

"If the Cylons attack Earth, you might as well kiss your wife and kids goodbye, Carl. If one of their capital ships turns its primary weapon on us, there will be nothing we can do to defend ourselves against it. Nothing!" Lauren returned heatedly.

"What about this other ship, LM? The one that intervened?" Fraser asked, ignoring the flashing light on his phone.

"Strike Captain Starbuck of the Colonial Nation," she replied.

"_Starbucks_?" he erupted, almost spewing his tall, extra hot, upside down, soy Caramel Macchiato with double froth in her direction. "You gotta be kidd . .."

"Don't look at me like that! I'm serious. From what I can tell, his people are our only chance, Carl. And there's more . . ."

The door burst open, smashing into the wall with enough force to knock a hole in the drywall as four men in suits rushed into the room.

"Finally!" one growled, charging towards LM Dayton, a weapon in his hands. His features changed to complete shock as his left hand passed through her.

"Isn't life a bitch?" she grinned, waving her fingers tauntingly at the goon. And then LM Dayton faded away as her holographic image was disconnected on her end.

"What the bloody . . ." began another suit.

"Alright!" said the first, pointing his weapon at Carl. "Where is she?"


	23. Chapter Five: Part Three

In Cheyenne Mountain's former stockade and now makeshift quarantine unit, Grae could see that the older man in the containment unit before them was completely insensate, his mouth open, drool trailing down his cheek. He was in four point restraints, for no apparently good reason considering his lack of consciousness, and his skin was already discolouring from a vivid bruise coming up on his jaw. In the unit beside him, the Polynesian-looking man was sitting on his bunk, staring at his counterpart as if in some kind of trance. He barely looked up at their arrival, trembling slightly when he did notice them and wrapping his arms around himself almost fearfully. It made the WASA astronaut feel sick.

Grae had strained to hear the conversation going on ahead of him between General Roach, the base commander and the Director of National Intelligence when they had walked through the base, but, not surprisingly, he was kept just far enough behind them that he had been out of earshot. What exactly _he_was doing here, he wasn't sure. From the way Roach was studying him, he was getting the idea that the general was waiting for some kind of reaction.

"Who are . . ." Grae started to ask, before the colonel broke in.

"What happened here?" Bradshaw demanded of the guards.

"Weekly labs and swabs, Colonel," one soldier explained, still at attention. "It isn't the first time he's become violent when we need to re-swab him. We had to sedate him."

"Swab? What the hell with? A baseball bat?"

"He was . . . uncooperative, sir."

"Really?" Bradshaw looked at both guards and shook his head. Obviously, they liked aspects of their work a bit too much. Too much power often wasn't a good thing. A taste could be even worse, in the right circumstances.

"The soldiers he attacked are in the infirmary. The medical officer just left," the other added, eyes forward, back ramrod straight. It was plain they both thought the treatment had been justified.

"What's this about a swab?" General Roach asked, frowning.

"They get swabbed weekly to check for microorganisms," Bradshaw explained.

"What _exactly_ do you swab?" Grae asked, drawing in a deep breath and realizing abruptly that these were the two men who had been piloting the shuttle that WASA had been trying to confirm the existence of for the last two months. The one that WASA had deduced had to be the _Endeavour_. He could feel the pounding of his heart against his chest. The Polynesian man made no sense to him whatsoever, but as to the other, if he looked beyond the mostly grey hair, the now slack features, the lines that came naturally with age . . .

"Orifices, Major," Bradshaw replied. "It's purely precautionary and part of the quarantine protocol."

"Swab _my_ orifices, and I might react the same . . . _Jaysus Murphy_. . ." Grae muttered, pasting himself against the thick plastic barrier between himself and the older man. He could feel his face lose its colour as he realized who was lying there before him. "That's . . . that's . . ." He shook his head in disbelief, realizing he was sounding like a complete and utter idiot. Immediately, Jess leapt to mind, since she'd be the first to tell him so if given the opportunity. _If she only knew_ . . . How long had they waited for answers? How long had gut feeling done battle with circumstantial evidence? "Dickins! That's . . ." He panted like a man who had run a marathon, so overwhelmed was he. "Captain Richard Dickins! Isn't it?" he demanded, turning abruptly to face the general. "_Isn't_ it?"

Roach narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "You tell me, Major Ryan. _Is_ it Dickins? If anyone _here_ would know for sure, it would be Dr. Patrick Ryan's son."

xxxxx

According to his readouts, flat, brown desert steppes stretched out below his ship as Starbuck followed the _Venture_ towards the WASA Space Station in the landlocked country that the Earthlings called _Kazakhstan_. It made him curious to see it with the naked eye and he briefly regretted the occlusive canopy and interactive helmet that dictated he navigate strictly by scanner array. How anybody could launch an offensive on this enormous base, even in the dark, without anybody noticing it ahead of time, made him wonder if eyes had been purposely averted. Or closed.

He still hadn't had any luck with re-establishing long-range communications and had not only failed to notify the _Endeavour_that he'd left three inert Cylon Raiders in Earth's orbit, but also that he was about to land in what was increasingly looking like a hostile situation. He could only hope that either Lu would pick up the Cylons on one of her sweeps or that one of the _Endeavour_'s advance patrols would. A light flashed and he touched his control panel, his brow furrowing as the life support seemed to revert to some kind of master program, the oxygen concentration dropping in reaction. Try as he might, he couldn't adjust it. It was as though it was locked by the initial program. The air would soon be getting dangerously thin in here, even by Paradeen standards, just perfect for Espridians. _Frack!_

"_Starbuck, are your people familiar with decontamination procedures_?" Jess' voice suddenly came across the line from the _Venture_.

"Yes," he replied, still trying to manipulate his systems. "It's part of our basic training. Why?"

"_Well, I just want to warn you that you're going to be subjected to going through decon._" She paused for a moment."_It's just procedure and nothing to be alarmed about_."

"O-kay," he replied haltingly as they drew closer to the base. He was picking up a landing field with an increasing influx of people and vehicles either already situated there or heading towards it. "So how long does that take? Five centons or so?"

"_Cen-tons_?"

"Minutes," he corrected himself. _Damn!_Earth had such strange time units and he honestly had a hard time keeping them straight.

"_It could take hours, Starbuck, depending on how thorough they are_."

"Come again?" he asked, getting an uneasy feeling. "Hours? How could it take so long?"

"_If you cooperate fully, it will make it easier_," she replied evasively.

"Cooperate fully? What the frack does that mean, Dayton?" he snapped, really not liking the sound of it. He began to feel short of breath as his anxiety climbed. Again, he checked his readouts. Oxygen was staying stubbornly low.

"_Don't give them any excuses to get rough, Starbuck_," she warned him.

"Listen, sweet lady, in a few centars when your people are looking between my toes for hidden enemies, those Cylon Raiders are going to be reinitialising their systems! I need to get a message back to the _Endeavour_! We honestly don't have time for this!" He puffed as though he had just sprinted here from the _Endeavour_, his head feeling light in reaction to his outburst. The thinner air would give him more time in theory, making the remaining oxygen last longer, but if he didn't adjust to it adequately, he'd black out.

"Call me 'sweet lady' again, Starbuck, and I'll make sure they probe further than between your toes!" Jess abruptly retorted before gasping aloud as she absorbed his message. "Whoa, now! Do you mean you didn't permanently disable those monsters?"

"That's _exactly_ what I mean," he huffed, feeling sweat trailing down his back. "Hopefully, they'll get pulled down by gravity and burn up in the atmosphere first. If not . . . Well, trust me on this, Cylons wake up cranky!"

"_This is Baikonur Control. No more chatter._ _We have you on approach._Venture_, you are approved for immediate landing on Runway Three_. _Strike Captain Starbucks, you are approved for immediate landing on Runway Four_. _Your escorts will guide you in. If either of you deviate, you will be fired on_. _Do you understand_?"

"_Roger, Baikonur_," the _Venture_'s pilot confirmed.

"_Do you understand, Strike Captain Starbucks_?" the voice again demanded.

As the fighters closed in around him, Starbuck glanced at his life support, briefly considering firing up his electronic countermeasures and hitting the turbos, rather than subjecting himself to whatever unpleasant decontamination procedure Jess Dayton had warned him about. Instinct told him that the Wraith could scramble their targeting system enough that he could get away, even though two of their birds had a lock on him. But even if he did manage to get away, he'd still have to land in the next ten centons or he'd black out from the lack of air, and crash. Ten to one, he'd never escape on foot across the barren landscape below him, even if it wasn't the swamps of Atilla with a whole Cylon garrison after him. He'd only be delaying the inevitable unpleasantness.

"Acknowledged," he agreed reluctantly. The ground was less than twenty metrons under him now and he dropped his gear. "And it's _Starbuck_, not Star_bucks_. I'm one of a kind."


	24. Chapter Six: Part One

Chapter Six

It was a sudden impulse and maybe something that Starbuck would eventually regret, but the truth of the matter was that the Wraith—equipped with VTOL capabilities—didn't _need_ a runway that was four thousand, five hundred metrons long like the one at Baikonur. Even more poignantly, he was almost out of support vapours. So, instead of bringing his recon ship up close to the outlying buildings on the edge of the airfield where a veritable force of people were gathering, he landed her on the opposite end, ignoring the runway lights. The area bordered the dry, grassy steppes that eventually lead to a sizeable city about five kilometrons away, which likely supported this base. In the same direction a sizeable river stretched out west to east.

The base was huge and sprawling, with various areas for launching man and unmanned missions, as well as tracking and communicating with what was already in orbit or space. It briefly reminded him of the first base he'd been sent to for training, way back when. He'd noticed on his scanner on the way in that some kind of track system connected the areas, probably for transport means. Downrange from one launch site there were hundreds of kilometrons of grasslands that had been turned into a graveyard for old-fashioned rocket stages which had smashed into the ground after separating from their propulsion rockets. Fleetingly, he thought of Apollo. His friend would get a real kick out of seeing the archaic site.

"_Strike Captain Starbucks! You were instructed to follow your escort in! Are you stupid like cork_?" a voice demanded over his comm.

"I'll let you know after I meet him," Starbuck breathed heavily, powering down his systems and raising his canopy. There was an audible hiss as the local air flooded his cockpit. He gulped in a huge lungful of it, even as an abrupt blast of dry, hot air pummelled him. Lords, it was as though it was trying to suck every bit of moisture from his already weary body. He'd been counting on settling into sleep mode over Earth at some point, but that sure wasn't going to happen now. He pulled his helmet off, raking a hand through his damp hair and enjoying the warm breeze on his face for a moment. He glanced at the starry sky over the desolate desert steppes, seeing the lights of the city in the distance. It was a stark contrast to the busy base, as a fighter taxied to a stop about three hundred and fifty metrons away, another following suit. In the distance, several vehicles were speeding towards him.

A glance at his chrono told him that twenty-four centars had passed since the _Endeavour_ had arrived in this star system. He fervently hoped that somehow Malus had been able to repair the Clavis, as the time seemed to be passing _way_too quickly. What would Dayton do if they couldn't fix the Clavis? Actually . . . now that he thought about it . . . maybe the Ship of Lights beings had orchestrated this latest problem. It certainly had their imprint all over it. Give them the technical ability to make it to Earth for one specific purpose, only to take it away again. Make sure that they could destroy the advancing Cylon Base Ship, but not allow the Colonials to seriously impact whatever grand scheme the advanced beings had devised.

Omnipotence . . . with some kind of weird astrum celestial guide book.

"_Frack_ . . ." he muttered, not for the first time feeling like he was being manipulated. Slowly, he rose up in the cockpit, his legs feeling wooden and stiff. He dropped his helmet on the seat, climbing down over the side and hitting the control to seal the Wraith up again. She hissed thankfully in reply as the canopy closed. Only his access code would open her up again. He'd learned that lesson on Paradeen. As he hit the ground, his legs almost buckled and he grasped the side of his ship for support. He continued to breath deeply, replenishing his oxygen-deprived body.

Angry, sharp voices shouted at him. He turned to see the two pilots approaching him cautiously. The man's hair was cut ridiculously short, barely a centimetron in length. The woman—once he realized that she _was_ one—wore hers short as well, framing a face that was easy on the eyes. Both pilots wore dark one-piece flight suits with some kind of insignia he couldn't make out at that distance. Starbuck shook his head, unable to understand what they were saying. It wasn't the Earthspeak that Jess and her people, or even the Baikonur Control were using. It suddenly occurred to Starbuck that he was the only one armed of the three and a glimmer of a grin spread across his face. Abruptly, they realized it too, eying his sidearm wearily. With another deep breath, he straightened up, feeling better now as he focused on them.

"I'm Captain Starbuck of the Covert Operations Ship _Endeavour_, representing the Colonial Nation." Briefly, he was reminded of the first time he had introduced himself to Ama on the planet Empyrean. She'd love his lofty title now. "I come in peace, I mean you no harm," he repeated Ryan's Earth greeting, hoping it meant something universally. Remembering another Earth custom, he stepped forward and held out a hand in friendly greeting . . . although the pilots came to an abrupt halt at his action, actually taking a step back. They shouted at him angrily again. That, and the sight of the vehicles racing towards him, made him drop his hand innocuously. Instinctively, his hand caressed the butt of his weapon as he considered his stun setting. But even if he managed to knock this bunch out, his ship had exhausted its life support and would take a while to recharge. Where would he go? He eyed the PAK FA fighters, intuitively looking for escape. Now, _that_could be fun . . . But he was _supposed_ to be convincing these people of the Cylon risk to their planet, not causing mayhem as he went on a joyride across the countryside. _The rigours of command, Bucko, remember you signed yourself up for this_. With all other courses of action eliminated, by and large, it looked like he'd have to use his irrepressible charm on them. Hopefully, the cute PAK FA pilot wasn't the only female in this outfit.

His mouth began to feel dry as Earth vehicles screeched to a halt. Over a dozen figures dressed from head to toe in protective suits—reminding him of the gear that the _Galactica_'s crews fought fires in—began to cautiously approach him. At least half of them—probably soldiers—were armed with some kind of assault rifle. Apparently, these people had no concept of overkill. In the dark and at a distance, they looked menacingly similar to Cylons as their boots clapped insistently on the tarmac, drawing nearer. "I'm Captain Starbuck of the Covert Operations Ship _Endeavour_ . . ." he again attempted.

"You will cease talking unless directed otherwise! Disarm yourself!" a voice shouted. At least this time he could understand it.

Granted, they didn't know him from Sagan. He nodded as a dozen rifles sighted him. Slowly, he lifted his laser from his holster and bent down to place it on the ground. Using the toe of his boot, he propelled it away, listening to it skitter across the tarmac. He raised his hands high in the air in surrender, while watching one man approach the weapon tentatively, treating it like a sleeping serpens about to strike.

"Place your hands on your head!"

Again, he slowly complied. It suddenly occurred to him that he still had a blade sheathed in his right boot, Empyrean style. He doubted it would do him any good and would probably only get him in more trouble when they found it. He pasted on a friendly smile, his glance naturally swinging towards another attractive female . . . there seemed to be an abundance of them on Earth. He'd be sure to mention it in his report. "Uh, listen . . ."

"_Silence_! Now, kneel!"

A moment later, he was down on his knees as they closed in around him. He held his breath as the muzzle of a rifle touched his temple. One arm and then the other were grasped firmly and twisted behind his back in a steady controlled manner. He heard a click as the unseen restraints were secured on his wrists. Then a body was standing right in front of him. He looked up through the protective face shield into the cold, calculating eyes of the man who had been shouting orders at the others.

"I am Director Borodin of the Main Directorate of Russian Intelligence. I'm going to ask you once, and if you do not answer truthfully the first time, I promise you that the next few hours will be passed very unpleasantly, before I deign to ask you again." He paused to let his words sink in, his soulless eyes boring into Starbuck's. It transported the Colonial Warrior back a few sectons to Iblis' domain, as a chill ran down his spine, making him shiver involuntarily. "Who are you _really_ and what is your connection to WASA?" He waved a hand in the direction of the _Venture_.

Starbuck drew a steadying breath through his teeth, meeting the cold, hard stare unflinchingly. "I'm Captain Starbuck of the Covert Operations Ship_Endeavour_, representing the Colonial Nation. Your planet is in danger . . ."

He only had time to briefly close his eyes as his peripheral vision caught sight of the open gloved hand that a milli-centon later impacted with his face. His head snapped to the side. Only the two heavy hands on his shoulders prevented the rest of his body from rocking with the blow. Even with the gloved interface, the right side of his face stung from the impact. He blinked through blurry vision as his face burned from the impact and a rising anger. _Don't give them any excuses to get rough, Starbuck_—Jess' warning echoed through his brain. He'd only told them his name, rank and tried to warn them . . .

The director barked something at the soldiers that Starbuck couldn't understand. He was seized under the uppers arms, hauled upwards, then they began to drag him away, the toes of his boots scuffing against the tarmac.

"Hey, take it easy, will ya . . .!" he muttered reflexively, before inspirationally adding, "Take me to your leader!" It was another Earthism that Ryan had taught him which he hoped would score him some points.

"_Silence_!"

He was beginning to get the idea that Director Borodin was immune to his usual charm.

xxxxx

The question was burning in everyone's mind: _Why_ would there be an airlock on a subterranean level for the Mars base? What was down there? Resources? Emergency exit? Some kind of "back door" to the surface?

"Well, some of them never got to use it," remarked Ryan over the commlink. He, Cassiopeia and Jolly had reached the infirmary. Like the rest of the Mars base, it was empty . . .

Save for the corpses. Two still on examining tables, two more in horizontal storage lockers, like a city morgue.

"_What do they look like_?" asked Dayton from his end.

"They're dead, Jim," Ryan returned, his shaky voice betraying his true feelings on the matter. He panned the biobeds, drawing back the sheets. One corpse looked fairly intact. A man, perhaps thirty years old. The body next to him was a different matter. Horribly burned, part of his suit and skin were peeled away, an arm missing, his remaining flesh pulpy.

"Sagan's sake," breathed Jolly, turning away.

"These poor slobs never had a chance, Mark," said Ryan, clearing his throat before he could continue. "This one guy looks like he was playing Russian Roulette with a flame thrower, for God's sake. He must have been near the explosion." Cassie handed him a chart that she found on a desk. The contents would be meaningless to her, after all. He flipped it open. "Sanchez, Guillermo. Electrical engineer, power section. Cause of death: massive burns and blast trauma. No bloody kidding. The other . . ." he picked up a second chart, and read it. "Gerard, Gaston. Recycling tech, according to this. Cause of death: radiation poisoning. Looks like onset of symptoms were within thirty minutes of exposure . . ."

"_Didn't you say that people take a while to die from radiation poisoning, Cassiopeia_?" Dayton asked.

"That's what I said, but I'm only familiar with Colonial data," she replied. "With severe exposure, it should take days."

Ryan nodded, still looking over the chart. "Depends on the sieverts. Jaysus Murphy on a pogo stick! This guy was exposed to _eighty_ sieverts according to this. That's _huge_! Now just maybe . . ." He flipped through the chart, checking the medications given.

"_Maybe, what? Spit it out, Ryan_!"

"Looks like they filled the poor bugger up with morphine and ended it."

"_That's mur_. . ."

"Euthanasia. Takes a lot of guts _and_ compassion . . . "

"_Bullshit!_"came the indignant reply.

"Tell him, Cassie," Ryan looked at the med tech. Even with her experience, he could tell she was trying hard to maintain a professional front in the face of this grizzly discovery. "If anyone here would understand, it would be a medic . . ."

"Paddy's right, Mark . . ." Her voice was subdued.

"Paddy usually is." Ryan reminded anyone in earshot, trying to lighten the mood.

"Best case scenario, he vomits, lingers for a few days until tissue death sets in." Cassie took a deep breath to steady herself before continuing. "Then he gets acute diarrhea, followed by gastrointestinal bleeding, leading to delirium and finally death. Worst case scenario gives him immediate disorientation and coma. Then a total collapse of the nervous system, causing death."

"So," continued Ryan, "if you take him with you, he's going to suffer horribly while sealed in a space suit and eventually die; if you leave him here, he's going to suffer horribly and die alone; if you stay . . . well . . . obviously they didn't chose that option."

Jolly frowned distastefully.

"He was toast, Jolly. Either way."

"That's cold, Ryan," the Colonial lieutenant replied, looking at the Earthman as though he was seeing him for the first time.

The Earthman shrugged. "Death usually is."

"_Anything else in there_?" Dayton interrupted.

"Not unless we stay and go through the place room by room, Commander," said Jolly. "I don't see a notebook or such. The log may be in the computer."

"Mal?"

"_Yes, Doctor Ryan_?"

"Can you plug in to the main computer and see if you can access the medical department logs?"

"_Of course_."

"Good. Download 'em. We can check 'em out later."

"_Accessing_."

Not long after, Dayton, Apollo, Dietra and Malus rendezvoused with Ryan, Cassie and Jolly in a huge room, designated as a machine shop. Not surprisingly, they found no survivors on their way. Inside, a veritable factory was laid out. Stacks of mining machinery and other equipment lay piled on pallets or strewn about. As with other areas so far checked, space suits were missing from their lockers. As identified in the Control Centre, they did locate the collapsed tunnel to the Shelter. Once again, they could scan no life signs.

"_Commander, Giles here. We're in . . . Compartment . . . uh, Baker, help me out here_."

"_Compartment three hundred and twenty-two, Sub-Level Three,"_Baker came through, sounding excited._"You have got to see this_!"


	25. Chapter Six: Part Two

For the fifth time in an hour, Jess rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of her neck, willing the dull throb in her head away as she followed the Spetsnaz soldiers through the enormous Baikonur Space Centre. Carter and the rest of the crew had been separated from her. She wondered where the special forces would put them, since Baikonur didn't boast any kind of military stockade, at least that she knew of. Then again, storage rooms and a good set of handcuffs would suffice, she supposed. Just as long as they weren't in any actual physical danger, it didn't really matter. Meanwhile, somewhere outside Director Borodin was meeting with Starbuck. The thought chilled her to the bone. Of _all_ the people to get in the way of their very first Colonial contact . . .

With a remarkable calm that could only be explained by resignation or exhaustion, she noticed that a few of WASA's security officers had apparently switched sides during the offensive. She gritted her teeth, wondering how many good and loyal people—some of them friends—had been lost during the attack. Orlov would be able to tell her, if they allowed her access to him, of course.

They led her into a room. Boasting a small kitchenette and a few oversized and comfortable pieces of furniture, it was normally used for lower-level base personnel to take a break in.

"Russian Feast time? Thank God, I'm starving" she quipped, earning a cold glare from her escort.

Then, like a brittle Russian gale, General Surkov burst into the room.

Jess drew in a deep breath, her chest suddenly tight with anger. She had an almost irresistible urge to physically attack him, even knowing she wouldn't have a chance to get near him with the guard present. She clenched her fists at her side, while doing her best to recover her usual composure. This wasn't exactly where she had been expecting to confront the general.

"Leave her with me," Surkov ordered, standing ramrod straight, his silver hair and impressive decorations a contrast to his dark blue Air Force uniform. The Spetsnaz soldiers hesitated, apparently surprised. The Russian officer paused only an instant before barking, "That's an order!"

Hurriedly, they stood at attention, snapping their right hands, palm down, to their right temples. Briskly and dismissively Surkov returned the gesture. They left, closing the door behind them before they suffered his wrath.

All barriers removed, Jess strode across the room, fury flashing in her brown eyes. She stopped inches from the general. "I _thought_ we had an understanding, Alexei Andreivich Surkov."

His voice was low. "To live life is not so simple as crossing a field, Jessica Markovna Dayton." His mouth twitched in amusement when she looked up in surprise at his playful use of the patronymic. Then he rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, kissing her on alternating cheeks three times. "If I hadn't interceded, most of your people would be dead now. Trust me on this. Borodin would see Baikonur destroyed. He would see you _all_ destroyed, _lapochka_."

"And don't you find that just a bit . . . _extreme,_Aleksa?" she asked, her tone and voice softening in response to his words. It had been almost twenty years and at least twice that many bottles of vodka since he had called her _lapochka_ . . .

"With Borodin in attendance, I spoke with Sergeiko." She didn't miss the old familiar use of Sergei's name that had once flowed from Surkov's tongue like a stream of honey, back in the old days. "And this . . . _Cylon_. While Borodin is preoccupied with Captain Starbucks . . ."

"He'll _kill_ Starbuck," she inserted sharply. "To get rid of the evidence, to shatter a treaty that we haven't even begun to draft. . ."

"Colonel Katko will ensure that he does not," Surkov replied calmly. "Besides, scars become a man."

She studied his features, trying to read his thoughts, his intent. Whether it was twenty years ago or now, with Surkov it was always impossible. What was it Winston Churchill had said? _Russia is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma_. This man was the same. She took a slow, deep breath, collecting her thoughts and her emotions. Was he manipulating her or was he really looking for the truth? Would he believe it if she did tell him the truth? Could he see past the permeating lies that had blackened a peoples' spirit for well over half a century?

"Aleksa . . ." she murmured, wanting to trust him more than she was comfortable admitting.

"True love never rusts, _lapochka_. Not for old friends. Nor for my _Rodina_," he said softly, lightly stroking her cheek. "Now, tell me everything I did not know before. From the beginning."

xxxxx

"They're rocks."

Ryan sounded suitably unimpressed as they looked at the laboratory counter that had several rocks of various size, shape and constitution displayed on it. Each one had been labelled, recording date, place of origin, name of the collector, and then analysed, the findings recorded on the data logs at the main station.

"Basaltic composition for the most part, although that's a tad generic. Think of it as granite that wasn't allowed time to cool and got puked out of a volcano onto the surface."

"Puked?" asked Malus.

"Erupted," smiled Baker, looking through the assorted stones. "Let's see . . . the usual volcanic medley for Mars. Hydrothermal quartz . . . metamorphic quartzite . . . hey, gold!" Baker told them from the central station, waving a hand at the porous looking samples. He held up the glittering specimen. "I'm staking a claim!" Then he pointed to a chunk of another stone, much denser and less porous than the others. "Well?"

"Looks like . . ." Ryan leaned over it, peering closer. He poked it. "A rock."

"As always, Doctor Ryan, your scientific insights leave us all gasping in abject overwhelmed-ness-ness."

"Hey, it's a gift."

Dayton let out a breath, pushing his friends aside and picking up the rock with both hands, weighing it in his hands as he looked it over. "It's a dense igneous rock . . . granite? These look like radiohalos. Granitic pluton?"

"Well, composition studies did identify both quartz and plagioclase feldspar. It's igneous and obvious fairly high in sodium . . ." Baker continued, referring to a hardcopy lying on the bench.

"Hey, hey . . ."Ryan waved a hand. "How about a tutorial for those of us who _listened_to Rock instead of _digging_ through them. What's 'felsic'?"

"It's a geological term, Paddy," Dayton explained. "Feldspar is an alumino-silicate rock You want the chemical formula?" He looked at the other, who managed to affect a look of sceptical boredom. "Uhh . . . I take it that's a 'no'? Good, cos' I haven't got a clue what it is." A few of them chuckled. "Anyway, in this case it means rocks that are enriched with lighter elements such as silicon, oxygen, aluminium, sodium and potassium."

"Right," Baker nodded. "Granite is the most common of felsic rocks. Now, this comes pretty damn close to terrestrial granite-like rocks."

"Then it's intrusive," Dayton guessed.

"My turn," Dietra smiled sympathetically at Ryan. "Intrusive?"

"Thank you, Darlin'." He winked at her.

"Rock formed from magma that cools and solidifies within the crust of the planet," Dayton explained. "That's what makes it so hard and tough."

"And what's your excuse, big boy?" Ryan teased him, batting his eyelashes at the _Endeavour_commander . . . before swiftly sidestepping the resulting half-hearted swing.

"He might have a point; I've _seen_ you erupt a time or two, Mark," Baker quipped, before continuing more seriously. "Now on Earth, granites often form as a result of crustal rocks being melted when carried down to depths in the Earth by plate tectonics. Mars shows little sign of plate tectonics. In this case they theorized that thick sequences of basaltic rocks were metamorphosed by moderate heat and pressure and then partially melted," Baker added, referring back to the data screen.

"Colour me dense, but I still don't get what you're all hot and bothered about, Bob." Ryan shrugged.

"Because . . . they recovered this piece of granite from a much larger piece that they believe to be some kind of . . . structure."

"Go on," Apollo encouraged him.

"One of the reasons they built the base here was that their Thermal Emission Spectrometers had been picking up weird readings here for decades. Along with several other projects they undertook, WASA had every intention of investigating those readings."

"How do you mean?"

"They've been excavating."

"For what?" Dayton asked.

"You got me," Baker shrugged. "For some reason, I can't recover that data. Like it was either erased or it's password protected and I just can't find it."

"Interesting," Malus piped up. The IL had been conspicuously silent throughout the exchange.

"Mal?" asked Dayton. "Cat got your tongue?" The cybernetic being looked odd, the only one of the group not in a spacesuit.

"I don't have . . . oh, yes. Another Earth idiom, no doubt. My apologies, Commander," replied Malus. "I have made a discovery that is . . . disquieting."

"What?" asked Apollo. He turned his helmet pickup in the Cylon's direction.

"I am using some of my time reviewing and reordering my files. Data that has been downloaded or input since arriving in this system."

"And that's disquieting . . . how?" asked Dayton.

"Two reasons. The first is that a full day has passed without getting any closer to solving the problem with the Clavis." He paused as they all nodded soberly. "As to the second . . . well, I was just reviewing the engineering logs from the Barstow Station." Again, the IL fell silent a moment, then looked directly at Dayton. "The reactor accident, Commander, was _not_ an accident."

"What?" asked Cassie and Jolly at once. The horrific images of the dead were still fresh.

"According to the recovered data, the reactor and all ancillary systems were functioning entirely within engineering design parameters until exactly fourteen minutes before the explosion."

"What happened then?" asked Ryan.

"At that time, someone entered a command into the system, directing the reactor's control computer to close a critical valve in the coolant system, withdraw all the control rods and also to shut down the main coolant pump."

"Holy . . ." sputtered Giles.

"Why the hell would anybody do that?" asked Baker.

"Indeed," replied Malus. "Exactly ten of your minutes later, the computer did precisely that. Within four minutes, the heat and pressure had risen so high that it exceeded the system's rated tolerances, _but_ the remaining coolant was not vented. You saw the result. The reactor massively overheated and the resultant explosion destroyed the entire area, flooding the base with radiation."

"Sabotage!" snarled Dayton. "Someone . . ."

"Bastards!" snarled Ryan.

"Any indication who?" asked Jolly. "Who sabotaged the reactor?"

"It would have to be someone with full knowledge, as well as access to all systems," said Apollo.

"Anything in the data as to who, Mal?" asked Ryan.

"Some of the surviving data is corrupted, I am afraid, Doctor. However, when we return to the _Endeavour_, I can attempt to run it through a buffered enhancement system and see what may be recovered. My own internal systems lack such sophistication, sadly."

"Do what you can with them, alright?" said Apollo. Malus began to comply.

"Mass murder!" spat Ryan, his voice taking on a cold, dispassionate tone. "Nothing short of bloody mass murder!" In his mind's eye, he could still see the face on that kid, Sanchez, expression still readable, the rest of his body ripped apart by the blast. Hell, he doubted he'd lived long enough for the drugs to do their work. The guy had died in utter agony and terror.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Cassie.

"Find 'em," said Dayton. "We find them!"

"And someone pays," Ryan promised.

xxxxx

Starbuck tried to tell himself that compared to _some_ of the things he'd been through—such as torture at the hands of maniacs like Bex or Guidobaldo, or a Cylon Brain Probe—that this was _relatively_ pleasant, other, of course, than the station where he'd been ordered to stand astride the unit. Hey, at least he was no longer restrained. It was like going through a hovermobile wash for humans as he progressed through the old-fashioned hygiene facility, going from one station to the next, while his naked body was thoroughly washed at a tolerable pressure for questionable alien contaminants. After all, the Colonials had a sonic version of this, and he'd even seen something like this one in one of his old textbooks. Yeah, these folks could sure learn a few things about updates. The smell of the disinfectant was a bit astringent for his liking and he could do without the assessing green female eyes on the other side of the transparent barrier, watching his every move as he dutifully raised his arms as directed, turning this way or that, but he'd been expecting worse. A _lot_worse. He told himself that he could ignore the humiliation factor when he'd been forced to undress in front of several soldiers and decon officers at gunpoint. It would probably be the last he'd see of his clothes . . . and Hades Hole, he'd just broken in those boots.

Once again, another door in the sequence of stations opened. He passed through into a chamber, this one almost closet-sized. A single white towel sat on a shelf. Again, the prying eyes of his assigned decon officer appeared on the other side of the transparent barrier. Like those who had first approached him on the runway, she wore a bulky white protective suit which covered her from head to toe. It was only from the arch of her fine brows and her heart-shaped face that he had even realized she was a woman at first.

"Dry yourself," she instructed through the intercom.

It was reassuring to know that between Earth and the Fleet, some things—like towels—were the same.

He grabbed the towel, hastily drying, before wrapping it around his waist. As he finger-combed his hair back into place again, a door opened and he stepped through. Within was a man-sized tubular container with an examination table extending outward from its core. It put him eerily in mind of something the Ovions had used to store their food source. An image of Cassiopeia struggling against two of the creatures in the caverns under the casino came powerfully to mind. It appeared that the table itself would slide into the pod, swallowing the occupant whole as it facilitated the . . . whatever-it-did.

"_Do you suffer from fear of darkness or enclosed spaces_?" she asked.

While she spoke the same Earth language as Dayton, the accent was much different, though understandable. It was the same as that spoken by Baikonur Control and Director . . . What's-his-name on the runway. He was beginning to realize the accent was indicative of this particular region.

"Of course not, I'm a Viper pilot," he replied, trying to force down a rising unease as he noticed the metal rings situated where a man's wrists and ankles would rest. "I'm used to a cockpit and . . ."

"Drop your towel and lie on the stretcher," she instructed.

"You know, I've seen brigs that were more inviting. Burning coals too, for that matter." Silence. "And you really have to get over this obsession you have with seeing me naked." He secured the towel firmly in place as she huffed angrily. Truthfully, he'd grown rather attached to the scrap of cloth. Funny, how one could become friends with a towel, but considering the alternatives in this place . . . He glanced again at the pod. "What's it _do_?"

"It checks for residual microorganisms, at the same time irradiating your body of any virulent ones resistant to our washdown rooms. And I am _not_obsessed with seeing you naked . . ." she defended herself.

"_Irradiating_?" he gasped, as the languaphone translated the word. "I thought you wanted me clean, not _sterilized_!"

"Irradiation is a proven technique in advanced decontamination," she calmly explained. "Once you are finished, we can begin the gastric, urinary and sinus lavage, and your decontamination will be completed. Then your medical examination will begin."

"_Lavage_?" he repeated in revulsion, slamming a hand against the barrier. "Listen, lady, if you think I'm going to let anybody irradiate me, then flush out my. . ." he shuddered at the mere thought. _So much for 'relatively pleasant', Bucko_. "Sagan's sake, there's a Cylon Base Ship out there somewhere!" He waved a hand in the general direction of "up". "That mega-pulsar can tear this planet apart! We don't have time for this felgercarb! There's more important things at sake here than the death-defying Colonial microbes up my astrum!"

Her features tightened in annoyance and she moved away from the transparent barrier to beyond his sight. In the heat of the moment, had he spoken to her in Colonial Standard or Dayton's Earthspeak? He wasn't even sure. However, it _was_plain he'd once again crossed over the boundary that Jess had warned him about. They were coming back and they'd be playing rough.

In the antiseptic and barren room, he looked around for something, _anything_ that he could use to defend himself. Try as he might, he couldn't even pull off the restraining rings from the irradiating platform. Yeah, his sole defensive strategy would be snapping his wet towel at whomever came to deal with his sudden rebellion.

The door once again slid open, this time admitting three hefty looking soldiers, all still dressed in protective gear and carrying handguns. Even he could admit, it was a damn bit more effective than his wet towel. Behind them he could see the female decon officer waiting in the wings, arms crossed over her chest. She looked smug. Immediately, the soldiers targeted him with their weapons. He raised his hands. He shouldn't have been surprised when his towel chose that moment to work its way loose from his hips, slipping down to pool around his feet. It was turning into that kind of day.

One soldier snickered in reaction.

It was one time too many. Again, thoroughly humiliated, Starbuck curled his lip in disdain, kicking the towel towards them as both a distraction and a visual impediment. He let out a battle cry worthy of an Angylion prince, before rushing them, not caring what happened next.

A weapon fired . . .


	26. Chapter Six: Part Three

Up until his fleeing Cylon Raider had inadvertently entered what humans sometimes referred to as a "wormhole" and had then crash-landed on Earth's moon, Lucifer admittedly hadn't met very many humans. Two, to be exact.

First there had been Baltar, whom he had spent far too much time with for his liking. At first, he had assumed that the entire species were like Baltar. He had seen the traitor of the Twelve Colonies of Man transform from a weak, simpering fool who had been about to be executed following the destruction of the Colonies, to an egomaniac upon assignment of his own Base Ship, and then, once again, to a beaten man when he had been picked up from his planet of exile and subsequently thrown into a Cylon brig. Baltar was a man ruled by his impetuous emotions and made all the more despicable and ugly by them. On Cylon, while he had been incarcerated, Baltar had been extensively and surreptitiously studied by the IL, who had to admit to an enormous curiosity about these creatures. He was a study in contrasts, beyond question, and one that made Lucifer realize just how malleable and easily beaten humankind could be. The presence of Baltar and his representation of the human race also virtually vindicated the existence of the Edict Of Extermination, in Lucifer's analytical and succinct opinion.

However, the more expansively that Lucifer augmented and modified his own programming, the more he realized that there were exceptions to certain rules. He met that exception as they neared Kobol in a brash young lieutenant, a Colonial Warrior named Starbuck, when one of their patrols captured him. Unlike Baltar, in the face of danger, the Colonial Warrior had maintained his dignity and courage and had impressed upon Lucifer such charming and uniquely human characteristics as flippancy, impulse and a still hard to define concept the Viper pilot called "luck". For a short time, the IL could _almost_imagine that perhaps humans as a race might not be completely unworthy of survival, as he'd been programmed to believe, and that there were some redeeming qualities in them, after all. He had actually enjoyed Starbuck's company, even when he had been the target of the man's intriguing sense of humour. How two humans could be so utterly different in character was perplexing. But after the engaging lieutenant had been set free on Kobol, another thirty-two point four days in the monotonous and narcissistic presence of Baltar had made him reconsider his conclusions and remember his duty. His primary programming.

It occurred to him that these Earth humanoids were quite a bit like Starbuck. While not surprisingly suspicious of Cylons, they had still displayed a fascinating curiosity and indeed an unexpected tolerance of Lucifer while sharing their unusual outlooks and customs with him. They had a diverse outlook on life, so much different from the Cylons' own. Yet, as different as they were as units, they seemed to generally coexist peaceably in large tribes or nations—despite their penchant to war on one another. And they were intelligent.

As much as he claimed that the Cylon Alliance would bear the tidings of friendship once they finally made it to Earth, he was well aware that the Earth people suspected otherwise. Somehow, they had an intuitive sense that told them to distrust the IL Series cybernetic being, indeed the Cylon Alliance, despite his declamations of amity to the contrary. Apparently, his "card playing face" that Lieutenant Starbuck had once claimed would be perfect for a universal tour of gambling chanceries across the Star System, wasn't quite as good as the warrior had implied.

However, Director Borodin, of the Main Directorate of Russian Intelligence, was a different kind of man than most of them. He was a man much like Baltar, based on Lucifer's admittedly limited observations. A humanoid whose own interests would come before that of his fellow man. A man who might very well be convinced to conspire with the Cylons, as long as he firmly believed that he and his people would benefit from the alliance. At least, that was what something in his master programming was telling him. Something that recognized this moment for what it was. This man for what _he_ was. A chance to replicate the destruction of mankind in a star system so far removed from the Twelve Colonies. He would be forever recorded in Cylon history and promoted far beyond any other of his kind by the Imperious Leader.

"Your stubborn refusal to believe in what is directly in front of your eyes, might very well lead to the extinction of your kind, Director Borodin. From what I have witnessed of your technological stagnation, you would be defenceless against only one of our capital ships. Coincidentally, I understand from Executive Director Orlov that there is currently a Cylon Base Ship in Earth's star system," Lucifer taunted him, not missing how the man's hands clenched and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Lucifer didn't understand why the man had continued to publicly deny the existence of alien life forms when the evidence to the contrary was so conclusive. This group of humans seemed more inclined to blame deviations from their societal norms on conspiracies and unlikely plots, rather than see them for what they truly were. Lucifer had to jolt the man into accepting the truth. "The Cylon Alliance would find it much more convenient to annihilate every living sentient being on your planet, rather than to leave behind the necessary forces to subjugate them. Unless . . ." He paused as Borodin raised a hand. "Yes?"

"You told Orlov that . . ." Disbelief and scepticism were etched into his features. "That the Cylons . . . came in peace . . ."

"Ah, I see we are making some progress," Lucifer nodded in satisfaction. "It is not Orlov that I wish to enlist. It is you, Director Borodin."

"Why?"

"The needless termination of an entire planet of life forms seems so . . . illogical. Do you not agree? However, here on Earth I have heard it said that 'one death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic'." He paused as the quote by Stalin penetrated the other. Borodin considered him quietly. "Yet, that is exactly what would happen . . . unless . . ."

"Unless what?" Borodin asked.

"Unless we formed an alliance with great and powerful nations, such as the Russian Federation, which then could rule Earth in our stead." He modulated his voice, making it the most convincing, most _wheedling_ he possibly could. "Isn't it time that your people regained their rightful status as one of the truesuperpowers of Earth, as you once were in the glorious days of your late Josef Vissarionovich Stalin?" He waited a beat and a sensor sweep of the human showed a rise in pulse, blood pressure and brain activity. His words seemed to be having the desired effect. "You know the men who could help us set up our ring of power. Accept my pact and I could make you one of the most influential men of your time, Yuri Vladimirovic Borodin."

"The President . . . he would never agree . . ." Borodin said the words hesitantly.

"Then chose a new one. Yourself, perhaps?"

Unsurprisingly, as something deep within Lucifer's programming deduced, the man didn't hesitate. "I accept."

_Of course, you do._

"Excellent. How good to see that all Earthmen are not so . . . so lacking in vision as certain others. We will contact the others forthwith. Now, tell me what you know of this Colonial pilot . . ." Lucifer purred.

xxxxx

"_Ama_ . . ."

_Sigh_.

The admonishment in John's voice was clear. However, the last time such a tone had made an impression on the Empyrean necromancer, she had been a relative child on her home planet when her mother had caught her "ruining your supper" chewing on wild honey sticks. Apparently, he was upset about her visit to Dick-Dickins, as well as her little diversion tactic with Dayton's daughter, Lauren, in the transit station. It hadn't occurred to her that she had put herself at risk until he had pointed it out to her. While it was true that she had been instructed by the Ship of Lights beings _not_ to interfere on Earth, in retrospect, it was like asking Borellian Nomen to break with their Code of Conduct and let their prey off with a kiss and a hug. Rather daft, actually. She smiled at him as the shimmering lightness of the ethereal surrounded them both.

"All things being as they are and will be,_John_, if I am indeed the one meant to help mankind overcome the inroads that Count Iblis has already made on Earth, then perhaps a certain amount of interference on my part is to be expected." She chuckled as he closed his eyes in frustration. "After all, I am not of your dimension, which, Dear Heart, leads me to conclude that I'm not specifically subject to your usual guidelines and limitations. Wouldn't you agree?"

The being of light opened his eyes, studying her impassively for a long moment in silence. He sighed again. Finally, "Young lady . . ."

"Operationally," Ama plunged onward, "I believe it is a way around your rather... _stringent_ rules, John." She fanned her arms outward, her palms lifted upwards. "And when dealing with the aftermath of the schemes of a being such as Iblis . . ." She refused to refer to him as her father, a revelation that had been as shocking as anything she could ever have imagined. "You need a rule breaker. A rebel. Isn't that why you brought me here? Salvaged what remained of my life force when it had dwindled down to but a spark? Or was it . . .?"

She had been conscripted by his kind for this calling after she had fought the battle of her life with Count Iblis—her blood father, as it turned out—in his own domain. She had barely survived the encounter and had later found out that it had been some mystical but crucial element of her own life force that still bound Iblis there, keeping him a prisoner. Through some omnipotent powers that she didn't altogether understand, the Ship of Lights beings had used the daughter to neutralize the father. For the present. However, the way things were progressing both on Earth and on Mars, she couldn't help but think that whatever Iblis had set in motion while there was still at work. His power was either being exerted and felt beyond his current realm, or the machinations he had put in place didn't rely on his presence. John clearly agreed.

"Ama, I caution you to remember that Count Iblis began his own existence as pure and noble before he started down the dark path as a rebel, ending up as the most vile, despicable being in the known universe. Many of the great things he did then are still spoken of in . . . certain realms. Remember, you do tend to have some of his rather . . . _egocentric_tendencies, after all. It's a fine line that you tread . . ."

"That is _your_ fear, it is not mine," Ama retorted stubbornly, knowing that they still harboured concerns that somehow Iblis' spawn would turn on them in the end. A lack of trust in the better aspects of human nature was one of their biggest failings as the guardians of the universe, in her humble opinion. "I _know_who I am, what I am. However, _I_ am motivated by the love of my people, not by bitterness and hatred, resentment and betrayal . . . although . . . if I don't find a decent fumarello and ale soon, that may change . . ." She cackled in amusement at John's indignant snort as he looked upward, the burden of his charge obviously wearisome. They could all use a heady dosing of humour in this realm. "Surely you realize that traipsing between the various and sundry dimensions of mankind and the ethereal is no Empyrean Ball, John," she reminded him. "I'm new to this sort of thing, and it takes a lot out of a girl."

"You have been given a _higher_ calling, a greater responsibility, Ama," he replied reasonably, leaving the rest of the message unspoken. "Something few mortals could even imagine, let alone be able to fulfil."

"In exchange for my life, yes, I know. But it is _my_ life force that continues to imprison Count Iblis . . . which makes it somewhat clear that it was inevitable you would restore me."

"And as such, there is one being out there who would see you destroyed. And more than one who will be looking for you on Iblis' behalf. You must not put yourself at unnecessary risk."

She paused to consider him. _Something_ had happened that he wasn't sharing with her. She gently probed his mind, trying to see what he was hiding. What he knew that she did not.

A barrier went up and he shook his finger at her. "Not now. This is your destiny, Ama," John reminded her.

"Then quit your meddling, and let me fulfil it, John," she returned. "As I see fit. If you don't allow me access to all the information, I could go seek it myself." She stared at him a moment, scowling, allowing him to think about that. "Surely, you would rather me put all my effort into what's happening on Earth. A whole world's fate hangs in the balance. An entire race!"

"I know," nodded John, looking up and beyond, and pausing for a long moment as he considered the information he received. "It really couldn't be more appropriate." He smiled wryly, glancing back at the necromancer. "That just might work. What do you think?"

"Perhaps you have a sense of humour, after all!" she returned, her grey eyes sparkling.

xxxxx

"Activate . . .?" As far as he knew, the line was secure, but he still didn't dare say it. "Isn't that a little drastic?" Hayashi, the Flight Director from Guiana Space Centre, asked over the sat-link. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest at the very thought of committing what were felonies, in huge numbers, in several countries all over the world at the same time. Not that it would matter if the Cylons came to town. "I mean . . . I know we put the program in place, but . . ."

"We're out of options, Atsuo," Lauren replied, her face looking tired and drawn. "The GRU has stormed Baikonur. Totally overrun it. And they have Jess and Sergei. For all we know, the Colonial visitor is already dead and they're disassembling the Cylon as we speak. Roach hasn't responded to Jess' threat about pasting that image of the _Endeavour_ all over the media because he knows they'll all turn me down flat. Word has gone out. Nobody will touch it. I even heard that some knuckle-draggers in Brooks Brothers visited my mother's former residence looking for her!"

"Is she okay?" Hayashi asked anxiously.

"I have it on good authority that she's safe. A bit discombobulated, but safe."

"_Damn_. . ." he breathed quietly. "I'm glad, LM."

"Well, _I'm_ angry. Look, this isn't the time to think about alternate plans that are slightly more legitimate. We need to hit them _now_ and do it damned bloody hard. We need to blast this thing wide open and our window of opportunity is closing fast. The only things that can save us now are a miracle or worldwide awareness. Possibly both." She paused for a moment. "You know the plan."

"You might need to reconnect with our heavy hitter."

"He's as good as his word. The only reason he's stayed put is because he knew this time would come."

"He has a lot to lose, LM."

"Nah, he would have left years ago if it hadn't been for a long talk we once had over a sixteen year old Lagavulin, when I told him that if he stuck in there and put up with their bullshit, that I'd finally give him this chance."

"I hope you're right."

"Me too. Tell you what, I'll call him right now anyway just to remind him of my immense respect and faith in him."

Hayashi chuckled. "Not a bad idea. And you? Are you safe?"

"You know me, Atsuo. Always wanting to be a part of it. I'll stay one step ahead of them and get my job done. A-number one."

"Ah, I thought so. Be careful, LM."

"Sounds incredibly boring, Atsuo," she scoffed.

"It grows on you," he replied, frowning as she cut their connection. He sighed, putting down his sat-phone and adjusting his microphone.

"Comm Section, this is Control."

"_Comm here. Go ahead, Control."_

"Attention, activate Killstar."

"_Authorization code?"_

"Authorization code, Vrillon of the Ashtar Galactic Command_."_

"_Received and understood, Control_."

Atsuo watched as one of the base's huge dishes began to move. Within less than a minute, he had confirmation: it was locked on target. Lights on his panel went green.

_"Killstar activating now."_

xxxxx

Slumped against the far wall of the containment unit and rubbing the feeling back into his wrists, Grae felt like an oversized lab rat. Even though he was theoretically in there alone with Captain Richard Dickins, General Roach, Colonel Bradshaw and probably that tobacco-reeking slimeball, Mason, would be watching every move and listening to every word. In the adjoining unit, the Polynesian man was also watching him. Distrust and curiosity were etched into his features. He hadn't missed that Grae was in their custody and was obviously wondering about the astronaut's reaction to the battered and unconscious Dickins when Grae had first laid eyes on him.

A low groan erupted from Dickins' lips. Grae looked over at the man who had gone missing with his father and another five NASA astronauts forty-five years earlier. For his age, the man was surprisingly fit and muscular, in a wiry sort of way. His grey hair still had streaks of its original black. However, it was the scars on his arms and neck, tracking under his loose clothing, that most disturbed Grae. Scars that made him wonder what he'd been through. And if, somehow, miraculously, his own father had also survived . . . or Jess'. He needed answers. Answers that had eluded him for a lifetime, since that shattering day when his mother had told him about the explosion of the ISS and the loss of the _Endeavour_. He returned his attention to the old man, when Dickins started mumbling.

"_Damn you . . . Bex!" Dickins' head thrashed from side to side, before he seemed to settle again. Then he murmured quietly, "Cassiopeia . . . quite a prize . . ."_His head lolled back onto his pillow. He had been undoubtedly sedated and was now finally waking up. But it was taking too damn long for Grae's liking.

Letting out a short breath, Grae climbed to his feet, grabbing a pitcher of water at the bedside. With a hopefully reassuring glance at the Polynesian man, who'd jumped to his feet in alarm, Grae dumped the contents on Dickins throat. After all, he wanted to wake him up, not drown him.

Sputtering in surprise, Dickins' eyes shot open, his body shooting upright. "Torg! You bast . . ." His hands twitched, as if clutching something. Then, after a second or two, he relaxed. He appeared to casually accept he was no longer restrained as he let out a breath, locking his eyes on Grae. With a cool, appraising glance, Dickins managed to assess the situation and the newcomer all within a couple seconds. His body relaxed as he looked indifferently at Grae, settled back into his bunk and then closed his eyes again.

"Is Paddy Ryan alive?" Grae whispered urgently, his voice not sounding quite like his own. He hadn't meant to blurt it out that way. He'd been intending to face down an angry man and explain himself. The last thing he'd expected was this reaction.

Dickins' eyebrows quirked slightly, before he opened his eyes again. This time he took a good long look at the intruder before replying. "You're new here, aren't ya, Joe Schmuckatelli?" He yawned widely, before continuing. "It's all in my file. I've told you it all a hundred times, at least. Every goddamn time, I told it the same. I'm not telling it again. Read the freakin' file, that is, if you made it out of grade school, boy." He smothered a yawn, and closed his eyes again, rolling over towards the wall.

_Boy?_ Twenty seconds in his presence and it began to occur to Grae just why the guards enjoyed pummelling Dickins so much. If the retort hadn't sounded so much like something Grae would say, himself, he might have held it against the old astronaut. He gripped the man by the arm, determined to have his say.

"Listen, you old fart, I've waited forty-five years to find out what happened to my father . . ." He paused, startling, as Dickins lurched back towards him, gripping him by the wrist and squeezing with an unexpected strength. Then the tough old man froze as the words penetrated his defensive mode.

"Your . . ._father_?" He studied the younger man intently, cocking his head slightly to the side. "Who are you?"

"Graeme Ryan."

xxxxx

The moment it pierced Starbuck's skin, he knew he was in trouble. A sharp stab, followed by a burning pressure, it grew outward in waves until his entire body felt as though some inexplicable pressure was physically crushing it. He'd been doing alright for the preceding few microns in the fight, managing to dodge the first flying projectile, and then actually disarming one soldier who was struggling to move aside his clingy towel. Then he was hurled to the ground under the combined weight of the other two. A handgun pressed against his back, which he was sure was about to rip a hole in him that they could launch a fighter through. Instead, it fired some kind of dart . . . and he was introduced to a whole new world of hurt.

The drug coursed through his body, making it feel as though infinite needles were being driven into his skin from every direction. He thrashed wildly, desperate to get them off, but hands were all over him, grasping and gripping him. He had to get them off, had to get away! Loud, unfamiliar jargon knifed through his brain. He clawed, punched and kicked at his aggressors, using an animalistic instinct rather than any defensive technique. His teeth tore into a gloved hand and he tasted the metallic tang of blood. _Victory!_ A micron later, two meaty hands wrapped around his throat and his head bounced off the floor as they tried to force him to release his clenched teeth. An unholy shriek echoed around the room. However, even with his vision clouding, Starbuck refused to relent. Then an all-encompassing pain gripped him by the balls, stealing his breath, as the gorge rose in his throat. Spitting out the torn flesh, he writhed on the floor in agony, curling up into a protective ball.

As one, they lifted him, tossing him onto the unforgiving surface of the stretcher, securing a flailing limb to a dreaded ring. Realizing his predicament, he forced himself to jerk against the restraint, straining to escape, arching his body upwards and bearing his teeth at whatever came close enough as a litany of Colonial curses flew from his lips. A massive weight pressed against him, forcing him downward, until one by one, straps and restraints were secured in place, completely immobilizing him. His chest heaved with his determined efforts, even as the last one was fastened and the unit of Earthmen stepped back out of his range.

Then the stretcher gently vibrated beneath him. His body began a slow slide into the pod as it swallowed him alive. The surrounding walls closed in around him. Again a pressure began to build, crushing him, choking him. He wasn't sure if it was real or imagined, but he couldn't ignore the all-encompassing panic that suffused him or the burning, insistent need to escape. Like a wild animal he fought, snarling threats and jerking uselessly at the restraints as the last of the light ebbed and darkness eclipsed his vision. Something clicked as the outside world was shut out. A low hum and a pulsating red light filled the chamber.

"_NO_!" he screamed at the cold metal walls.


	27. Chapter Seven: Part One

Chapter Seven

Consciousness seeped back. Slowly. Painfully.

Starbuck shivered with the coolness as unfamiliar voices drifted over him. He still couldn't understand _what_ they were saying, but . . . at least they didn't sound angry. At this stage, that was somewhat encouraging.

With a deep breath, he forced his gritty eyes open, blinking at the resulting blur until his vision cleared. His head felt thick, his thoughts muddled. It took him a moment to get his bearings.

He was out of the pod, out of that room. Thank the Lords of Kobol, both those he remembered the names of and those he didn't. He closed his eyes again, letting out a small sigh of relief, not wanting to think about the panic that had infected him after they had injected him with their dart gun. He vaguely remembered screaming himself hoarse, and thrashing about wildly until he was completely exhausted from the effort. He couldn't help himself, couldn't curb the desperate urgency. How long they had left him in there before taking him out again, he had no idea. He'd been physically spent, almost insensate. Yeah, if his burning throat and throbbing head were any indication, it had been a long time.

He shook his head, even as unwanted memories of those centars came back to him. It didn't matter how hard he fought, they were determined to finish their decontamination protocol with him strapped to that table. Idly, he wondered if Hummer and Dickins had been subjected to the same treatment on the opposite side of the planet. Involuntarily, he shuddered, wondering vaguely if this was what Dayton had meant by the "Welcome Wagon" he had once mentioned.

Sure as Hades Hole wasn't very welcoming.

"You're awake?"

The soft voice beckoned him to open his eyes once again. Reluctantly, he did so, feeling abashed that he had been unaware of her presence. The most startling sky blue eyes framed with thick, dark lashes filled his vision and gazed curiously into his own. Her dark hair was pulled back severely off her face and she wore the usual protective white suit that denoted she was one of the bad guys. He attempted to respond, but his voice was raspy and thick. He cleared his throat, only to have his voice fail him once again before he coughed harshly, instinctively trying to sit up as his chest rattled and burned. His restraints stopped him and he winced as the movement lit another fire around his wrists. The light sheet that covered him shifted slightly, revealing bandages around both wrists from his previous struggles and an array of bruises. Oh, and apparently he was still nude.

"Quiet yourself," she shushed him, moving to his side and adjusting the sheets tactfully. She picked up a pitcher and poured a tumbler of a clear liquid, offering it to him through a straw.

He eyed it suspiciously as he settled back on the pillow, although the thought of quenching his burning thirst appealed more than he'd like to admit. His skin felt hot and tight. Like it was one size too small, shrunk in the Kazakhstan heat. There was a growing pressure just under his eyes and nose, making his face ache and his eyes begin to water.

"It is water," she assured him. "You know . . . _water_?"

He nodded, parting his parched lips and allowing her to slip the straw in his mouth. He drew greedily on the straw. The splash of cold water filling his mouth tasted more glorious than fine ambrosa. However, swallowing it was another matter altogether. Pain lanced through his throat as he forced himself to gulp it down. Determinedly, he drained the tumbler and then he collapsed back against the stretcher, utterly exhausted. For some reason he couldn't breathe through his nose and that wasn't helping.

"Who . . . are you?" he croaked, looking around the small cubicle. It was some kind of isolation chamber, as they had on the _Galactica_ or _Endeavour_ but with one startling difference. Like in the "washdown" facility, thick, transparent walls separated the "patient" from the med techs, who stood on the other side observing him. He had absolutely no privacy, whatsoever.

"Colonel Katko, Natalya Andreyevna," she replied, pausing and raising her finely arched eyebrows expectantly, as if waiting for something.

"Starbuck," he said throatily, by way of introduction.

"You only have . . . _one_ name?" she asked, furrowing her brows.

Actually, he had two, one given to him by his parents and the other by the Caprican Child Welfare System, but he didn't really want to get into that just now. "It's served me fine until now," he managed with a wan smile.

"Your weapon, your ship . . . they are nothing like we have ever seen before. Where are you from?"

"The Colonial Nation . . ." She shook her head blankly. "From another star system, far away."

Her eyebrows raised sceptically. "Then how did you get here?"

He grimaced, looking around and testing his restraints once again. "I've been asking myself that same question, lady . . ."

She frowned at him. "What language is it you speak? Your _first _language?"

He frowned, raising an eyebrow at her.

"The one you screamed in. The one that nobody understands."

"Ah." He felt himself flush, not liking the idea of any woman hearing him scream in pain or fear. He cleared his throat once again, wishing he had a free hand to release the vise-grip on his head. "Can you . . ." It still hurt to talk. "Take these things off? Maybe find me some pants?"

"_Nyet_." She shook her head. "Doctor Sidorenko felt that you reacted adversely to a drug that was intended to sedate you," she explained. "Apparently, on you it had an unexpected, rather violent effect."

"No mong," he muttered. It _had_ been the drug.

"She also mentioned some differences in your hemochemistry which might explain why you metabolise our drugs differently. Also your bone density, organ structure . . . and kidney function." Her eyes dropped to something she was reading. "Excessive deep scar tissue in places, but very few congruent scars on the skin surface . . . some kind of mechanical implant in your right inner ear and another at the base of your skull . . . all very . . . _perplexing_. Can you explain?"

"Nyet," he replied stubbornly, mimicking her before glancing at the pitcher of water again while he processed her words. Yeah, he guessed the conclusions from his medical examination would look pretty unusual, by Earth standards. After all, Dayton and his men proudly wore the scars of their thirty yahrens of tribulations. In a Colonial Life Station, medical personnel had the ability to erase those superficial marks for the most part, although deeper and older damage couldn't necessarily be eradicated as easily, as Salik had told Starbuck repeatedly. "You took my blood?" he wondered aloud, not remembering. It was something he particularly hated. It took him straight back to all of those times that Ama had felt it necessary to draw his blood for one of her mystical incantations. He sighed, wondering what else he didn't remember. Then again, maybe it was just as well. . .

She smiled softly at his confusion, turning to pour him more water. For a military officer, she had a maternal side that he was willing to bet she didn't show often. Again she offered him the straw and he sipped as she continued. "You bit one of our soldiers, tearing through his glove and breaking the skin. It is Dr. Sidorenko's opinion that you have contracted the virus the soldier was carrying, as a result."

"What _kind _of virus?" he rasped, remembering Dr. Salik's warning that his immunity was compromised since his spleen had been removed back on Planet 'P'. It would be just his luck that he'd get some bad astrum Earth disease. Cassie would roll her eyes at him as Rhiamon started her weird Empyrean therapies.

"We refer to it as the 'common cold.' A generally mild rhino-virus. It is nothing." She shook her head to accent her point.

_Rhino-what's it?_ He mouthed the unfamiliar word while his languaphone translated. "Well, that's good." His eyelids began to drift closed of their own volition. He forced them open again as he realized . . . "Where's Director Dayton? And who's in charge here? I need to talk to someone about the Cylons. There's a Base Ship . . . "

Colonel Natalya Katko turned, her finely arched eyebrows knitting as she glanced beyond the transparent barrier. Starbuck looked over, drawing a raspy breath as he bolted up against the restraints once again. On the other side of the barrier was Director Borodin, the man who had promised him he'd pass a few very unpleasant centars. Apparently, the man kept his word. Beside him, was an IL Series Cylon wearing a slightly tattered red robe.

"Ah, Lieutenant Starbuck," said a voice over the PA. A voice Starbuck knew . . . "Such an unexpected, yet timely diversion. What are _you_ doing in this part of the universe?"

"Holy _frack_!" After all he'd been through since landing, he'd forgotten all about Jess mentioning that Lucifer had crash-landed on Earth's moon. He lunged against the restraints once again before demanding hoarsely, "_Get these things off of me_!"

xxxxx

"General! You have to see this!" Bradshaw announced, breaking into the small room where Roach had briefly sat down to finally cram in some long-delayed food and drink, while he kept his eyes on the vid-feed from Dickins' containment cell.

"What is it?" Roach replied with a touch of irritability, automatically rising to his feet at the other's tone of voice.

"We'll go . . ." The colonel paused, mid turn. "Never mind. Do you have a Sat-Phone, sir?"

"Of course." Roach pulled it out of his pocket, flipping it open, raising an eyebrow at the other. "_And_, Colonel?"

"Any news station. They have them all, sir," Bradshaw replied soberly.

"What does _that_ mean?" the general asked as a multitude of possibilities ran through his mind. Thumbing his screen until he connected with CNN, Roach felt the colour draining from his face. Brian Hicks, long time respected and esteemed news anchor of CNN, was on the air. However, his story definitely hadn't been approved by mainstream media.

" _. . . Yes, you are looking at actual satellite imagery taken only hours ago, when it was verified that spacecraft belonging to the cybernetic race of Cylons—long reported by government intelligence to be a WASA hoax—have actually entered Earth's orbit_."

"What the . . . holy son of a . . ." Roach's jaw dropped as he took in the images. He began flipping through every channel available. Impossibly, Hicks was on every English speaking station that Roach could access. "It's all over the bloody . . ."

"Yes, sir. BBC, Reuters, AP, FOX, Euronews . . . It has to be WASA, sir. They've taken control of the entire commsat network, General. Right now, they are broadcasting over every available media outlet from television to the Internet. Every household, every Sat-Phone, every frequency, they're _all_ getting this. And with Brian Hicks passing the word, the masses aren't even going to question the validity of this."

"Everybody?" Roach repeated incredulously as the reporter went on to describe how a "Colonial Warrior" in an advanced fighter craft of unknown origin had single-handedly rescued the WASA space shuttle _Venture_ from certain destruction, as the corresponding images flashed across the tiny screen. Fuzzy images of WASA Director Dayton aboard the _Venture _flashed by, as well as an accompanying voice attributed to the Colonial Warrior inside the mystery vessel. The tension, the danger, the rescue, the victory, it was Pulitzer Prize winning material.

"Everybody. I'm guessing that alternate media sources from around the world have teamed up with WASA, replacing mass media with whatever they want to report, until we regain control."

"_Earth is in peril, yet WASA tells us that we have allies that we didn't even know about. Brothers from far across the universe, whose own civilisation was itself destroyed by the Cylons several years ago. They refuse to let history repeat itself. They have come to help. It can only be described as a miracle_."

"How?" Roach demanded.

"Those new GPS satellites that WASA launched a few months back," Bradshaw explained, "well, during the last four hours they've manoeuvred within range of every functional major communications satellite in low Earth _and _geosynchronous orbit . . ."

"We've been _watching_ this happen?" Roach exploded. "They've screwed us over right in plain sight, and we've been _watching_ them do it?"

"As far as NORAD knew they were _GPS sats, _sir! How were they to know that officially twelve minutes ago the satellites would simultaneously emit a concentrated electromagnetic pulse, basically hijacking and replacing the entire commsat network?"

"Where from?" Roach demanded.

"French Guiana."

"Oh, it _would_ be!" Roach roared. _Bloody Hell!_ He had no jurisdiction there. "Drag Major Ryan up here! I know he and Jess Dayton are two peas in a pod. He must know something about this project. And get me Leach, Marshall of the Royal Air Force. He knows the French Chief of Staff. Uh, what's his name . . . General Metencourt. We have to shut them down."

"But, Sir . . . if this is true . . . all of this about the Cylons . . ." He waved a hand helplessly towards the image of Captain Richard Dickins captured on screen.

Roach pulled off his hat, running a hand through his bristly hair. "_Shit_ . . . Bradshaw, better get me the President too."

xxxxx

Grae Ryan had never met a more suspicious man than Dick Dickins, but after he'd heard his story, it made sense. Utterly. After all, the WASA astronaut _should_ have been the one questioning the validity of the identity of a man who was supposed to have died when the International Space Station exploded back in 2010. Instead, Dickins had grilled _him_, plying him with questions regarding a father that he had vague and distorted memories of at best. Grae remembered his astronaut father being the best of weekend playmates with a memorable laugh and an unlimited bag of tricks, practical jokes, adventures and goodies. Yet that had been balanced with the early memories of his mother's tears and her rants that her ex-husband was better suited to _Romper Room_ than NASA. Then of course there had been the accusations that the _Endeavour_ crew had had something to do with the tragic incident in space. That perhaps they were responsible for the beginning of the end of the NASA program. Patrick Ryan had fallen from grace, from hero to terrorist, within a short time. Grae hadn't known what to think, only being a small child when his father had been reported missing after the _Endeavour_'s fateful last mission. His parents had been separated for well over a year by then, and his mother had allowed her bitterness and anger to overrule any maternal instinct to protect her children.

Finally it was a simple phrase that had turned the tide in Grae's favour with Dickins: "Jaysus Murphy, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?"

Dickins had grabbed him by his flight suit, his grip unrelenting. "What did you just say?"

_Jaysus Murphy_.

It was a phrase that generations of Ryans who had settled in the Maritimes had used over the years, and he'd been no different. Family reunions at Granny Ryan's were legendary. His first ever word was "Mama". His second "Murphy". It was a long standing family debate whether "Jaysus" or "Dada" came next. An American friend had once told him that he didn't think real people actually said that. That it was a "quaint phrase used only in folklore". Now he included his friend among the enlightened ones.

"Ryan, you're coming with us!"

Two guards were opening the containment unit. At this point, Grae was feeling just a little overwhelmed as he tried to comprehend the story that Dickins had told him about how the _Endeavour_ crew had actually passed through some kind of wormhole, or whatever, and had ended up far across the universe in a base run by pirates and cutthroats. His father was alive. Actually alive! However, Dickins had also claimed that he and his compatriot had been sent here to help prepare Earth technologically for an impending Cylon arrival, insinuating that those known as the Guardians were at work elsewhere in the universe. Meanwhile, here Dickins and Hummer sat locked up in Cheyenne Mountain. Apparently, that hadn't exactly gone to plan.

"Where exactly?" Ryan asked the guards.

"General Roach wants to see you," a guard replied after a moments hesitation. He turned his attention from Ryan to Dickins when the other's foot moved. "Back off, old man," he warned Dickins. "Unless you want some more."

"I'm insatiable," Dickins shot back. Then, ignoring the guard, he looked to Ryan. "Watch your back, kid. Don't drop your guard." Then he grinned cruelly, leaning closer. "Or if you drop one, make sure you can drop the other."

"Right," Grae replied, turning to go.

xxxxx

"Shall we, old chaps?" Ryan asked the others, poised at the internal hatch to the airlock. He glanced at Lia and Dietra apologetically. "And chapettes?"

"By all means, good sir," Baker agreed with a flourish and bow as Dayton nodded at them.

"What's a _chapette_?" Lia whispered to Dietra, once more lost in Earthspeak.

The lieutenant shrugged in reply. "What's a chap? Sounds painful."

Within a few centons they had all passed through the airlock and at first thought they had stepped out onto the surface. They were in an area of enormous expanse, with the lowering sun shining through something overhead. It took a few moments to grasp that it was . . . dirt! Swaths of plain old dirt were suspended above them by the structure. They were standing at the entrance to a wide tunnel, its walls made of some different material than either the base or the native stone.

"Illuminators," Apollo said.

The team began pulling them out to light their way. The colonel shone his light upward and then around the tunnel walls. They appeared ribbed and translucent where they allowed in glimpses of light.

"Holy Triquetra," muttered Lia looking up.

"It like a major priory," said Dietra, her voice filled with awe. "So . . . so huge." It appeared that the passageway had been artificially buttressed. Of course, the worry was that if the tunnel to the Mars Shelter _within_ the base had collapsed, that this could too.

"Glass?" Baker asked incredulously, his gloved hand running over the surface. "Holy crap! I don't believe this!" he gaped, turning to look back at Dayton. "These _aren't _part of the base, Mark . . . These look old. Damn old! And these ribs . . . ain't a speck of corrosion on 'em."  
Dayton shook his head, murmuring, "Can't be . . ."

"It appears to be constructed of condensed tylinium," Malus concluded, analysing the structure. "Interesting. I was unaware you Earthlings had condensed tylinium."

"We don't," Baker replied. "Or at least, we _didn't_." He looked down from the archway overhead to the floor. It was mostly covered in sand, and there were booted footprints in it heading away from the airlock. Some looked very recent.

"Well, somebody did," said Jolly. He looked up to where a gap had been broken in the transparent tunnel. "And these beams . . . even where they're bent, they haven't cracked. This is condensed tylinium, for sure."

Ryan snorted, striding ahead of his commander. "Wasn't this one of those weird Mars conspiracy theories, Mark? Like that image of a face in Cydonia? What was it, now? Glass worms, right?"

"NASA concluded it was some kind of optical illusion. That we were looking at valleys and sand dunes," Dayton added slowly and disbelievingly. "They swore it wasn't tunnels."

"Conspiracy theory?" Giles asked.

"Mars was a hotbed for conspiracy theorists. They figured NASA was hiding the existence of a previous civilization, although there were some prominent scientists who believed it was exactly what it appeared to be," Baker supplied.

"Clarke, wasn't it?" asked Dayton. At the time he'd been more inclined to believe NASA. After all, he _worked_ for them.

"Yeah. But some people went Freaksville at the idea."

"Idea?" asked Malus, the confusion in his voice clear. "Of transparent tylinium tunnels?"

"Of aliens," Ryan corrected.

"Why would they do that?" Cassiopeia asked.

"Well, any suggestion that aliens might have, at some point in the past, populated Earth always came in a distant third to Creation and Evolution," Ryan replied. "Although, I remember reading a Jim Marrs book that stated scientific testing showed that modern human remains in prehistoric Israel predated Neanderthal remains pretty drastically. Hey, that pretty much struck a severe blow to the theory of continuous evolution."

"How could they exist concurrently?" Baker asked. "That doesn't make sense."

"Ryan's suggesting that 'modern man', as he's calling them, obviously were extraterrestrial," Dayton replied. "Right?"

"That's what Marrs—the man, not the planet— suggested. And he certainly wasn't the only one," Ryan replied with a grin. "Although I will admit it's been a while since I read _Rule By Secrecy_."

"Man, are you a closet conspiracy nut job and we're just finding out now?" Dayton asked him.

"Finally, at least he's out of the closet!" Baker joined in. "I _knew_ this day would come."

"Hey, I haven't even seen a closet since joining the Fleet!" Ryan protested, with a wry look at the Colonials. "Hmm, I'm having an incredible urge to kiss Starbuck right now. Wish he was here."

"I too miss Starbuck, Dr. Ryan," Malus added rather sombrely. "Although I never understood the human compulsion for kissing."

"Plant a big wet one on _Half-Caf_ next time you see him," Baker suggested. "See if you get anything out of it."

"Wet one?" Malus asked.

"Moving on," Apollo inserted, his expression completely bewildered. He shook his head, glancing at his scanner and getting back to business. "Well, it _looks_ safe enough."

"And presumably, the others came this way," Jolly said, taking a few more steps. "The boot prints."

"Mal?" Dayton asked.

"I am not picking up any seismic activity, Commander. There have been no further aftershocks since we have arrived."

"Chance of precipitation?" Dayton asked glibly.

"Excuse me?" the IL replied, looking up at the ceiling.

"Never mind," Dayton replied, waving a hand forward. "Let's move it out."

Moments later, they were heading down the tunnel, following the path. Within a dozen steps they felt a sharp "jerk" upwards, as if they had been lifted slightly.

"We're in Mars gravity, now," said Apollo, scanner in hand. "Out of the base's artificial grav field."

"Yeah. Lighter," said Baker, lightly jumping into the air a few inches further than he usually could. "Man, I finally shed all that mushie weight. Who needs Jenny Craig!" Dayton made a rude noise in response.

"I read it as only thirty-eight percent that of the gravity inside the base," announced Malus. "This region appears to be largely igneous rock, Commander. Overlain with thick deposits of highly mafic basaltic lava flows." He swept his scanners over the walls. "How odd . . ."

"Nice digs," Baker quipped with a grin at his commander as they passed an abandoned pile of equipment. Arc welder, portable generator, tool bag. "Reminds me of Early Garage. Or perhaps the transition to the Middle Warehouse Period."

"Commander Dayton," said Malus, "I am picking up highly anomalous readings ahead. It appears as if . . ."

"Well, let's find out for sure," Dayton replied, briskly leading the way down the tunnel. Had NASA been lying about what was on Mars all those years ago? What the hell for? Weren't they scientists? Wasn't exploring their star system and discovering the existence of life the reason they all got into this? _Wasn't NASA's mission statement:_ _To improve life here, to extend life to there, to find life beyond._ He glanced at his chrono, wincing. This was taking too long. They needed to find the survivors and get the hell out of there. They had a Base Ship to destroy. And a recon team to rendezvous with.

The tunnel ended and they came out into a dimly lit huge gallery, bigger than a basketball court, which appeared to be a partially excavated site of ancient ruins. Drills, work lights and more mining equipment lay scattered about. A little shiver of excitement ran down his back. For a second he wished his father could be there. How many similar sights had he seen as a child when his father, an Egyptologist and archaeologist, had often dragged him around the world to whatever ancient ruin he was working on to broaden his horizons. It appeared that the Earthers had built their base above some kind of ancient subterranean city that had dissolved into ruin long ago. If he was right, it was _thousands_ of years ago! "I don't believe this."

"Holy von Däniken, Batman!" Baker agreed.

"Lords of Kobol!" said Jolly as they took it all in.

Across the gallery the floor ended. They looked down into a seemingly bottomless chasm, gasping in surprise as they gazed upon the half buried remains of an immense pyramid.

"Like Kobol," Dietra murmured.

"And Egypt," Dayton added.

"How far down?" Apollo asked.

"It's too dark to tell with the naked eye," Dayton replied.

"Malus?" Baker asked.

"Over a thousand metrons deep," the IL replied.

And filled with machinery! Refined metals, tunnels, massive pipes and conduits the thickness of a house, platforms, the works. It was dark and eerily silent. A vast and forgotten . . .

What?

"_Forbidden Planet_, anyone?" muttered Baker.

xxxxx

"The _Endeavour_ has been delayed, of course. Starbuck is in trouble, as usual. He needs help, like always, and Sweet Triquetra, if I can't give it to him, then you will. Do you understand your assignment?" Ama asked.

"Perfectly. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity to help. I feel as though this is my destiny, my chance to contribute what I've learned through my own rather considerable mistakes. And I owe Starbuck so much, of course." He lightly touched her arm. "Stay safe, Ama. For you alone can keep Count Iblis in exile."

Ama studied the beatific smile, sensing only a fellowship and altruism that she had never before detected from this individual. So much time had passed for him. She could only celebrate the spiritual growth and exaltedness of this man that she had once deemed worthy of her faith, albeit sceptically. Still, it was disappointing to step aside at this point. She would watch over them all, inserting herself once again if she saw fit. No matter what John said.

"Starbuck will be surprised," Ama warned him.

A familiar wicked laughter rolled out of the other that seemed out of place with his celestial appearance. "That, my dear lady, would be putting it mildly."

Ama couldn't help but smile.


	28. Chapter Seven: Part Two

So far, the Wraith which Luana was piloting had gone completely unnoticed by Earth's defences, its advanced ECM far beyond anything that the more primitive planet's technology could detect. She smiled, realizing that by Empyrean standards, Earth was actually quite advanced beyond her home planet. From naïve Empyrean princess to Colonial Warrior, wife and reconnaissance pilot on the first Covert Operations Ship, Lords, her life had changed so radically and she'd learned so much since becoming part of the Fleet just over ten sectars before.

_Has it only been that long?_

Once again, she checked the readouts on the Wraith helmet's integrated display. As ordered, she'd covered the first part of her assigned grid, collecting and recording data. Hungry for information regarding Earth, she listened in on various sources through her languaphone. Despite the sedentary aspect of the mission, it was exciting, as well as a real honour to be entrusted with it. All in all, the reconnaissance patrol had been largely uneventful, which meant that Luana could either take the opportunity to put herself into a higher orbit and go into sleep mode for a while, or she could let her mind wander. Unfortunately, when she did _that_ she ended up thinking about her husband.

Starbuck was a good man—heroic, fun, impulsive, honourable, ambitious, brave, not to mention easy on the eyes—but he could also be so damned . . ._insensitive_ at times. He hated to dwell on anything problematic and would rather search for compromises or what he deemed to be potential solutions, rather than just let her grieve over a loss that he clearly didn't understand. Conversely, he had an underlying vulnerability that didn't appear often, but had once again surfaced when she had told him she didn't want to adopt, in lieu of having a baby of her own blood. Yet, he'd characteristically risen above that to assure her that beyond everything else he merely wanted her to be happy. Still, how could he possibly grasp what was _happy_for her when he was an orphan, seeing kids come and go over his lifetime like shadows on the wall?

She sighed, adjusting the frequency to decrease the distortion on the latest transmission she was picking up. If Ama was still around, the necromancer would tell her to cherish what she had instead of dwelling on what she didn't.

_We have been given what we have been given, child. Can fretting make you taller or make the rain come sooner or give you a moments more life? Some things we must accept and learn to live with._

It had been a way of life for her at one time, one that she probably needed to return to.

Sweet Triquetra, how she missed the old crone . . .

". . . _at last report, the Colonial Warrior known as Captain Starbuck was sharing critical information with WASA director, Jessica Dayton, as well as Russian Air Force and Intelligence Agencies. At this point we can only surmise that President Gibson and other world leaders will soon be involved to uniformly devise a plan to defend Earth_ _from the Cylons_. . ."

"What the frack . . ." Luana sputtered. "Sagan's sake, Starbuck, what have you done now?"

xxxxx

_Drop!_

The single word came from seemingly nowhere, penetrating Grae's brain and forcing him to obey, as if he was still an officer in the Canadian military. He dropped to the floor, rolling to the right and knocking a guard off balance, just as the silenced blast of a handgun penetrated his senses in that isolated offshoot of the corridor.

The guard on the left dropped to the floor, dead, taking a bullet in the temple that was meant for Grae. The other fell hard. Grae scrambled for the gun that was still loosely gripped in the surviving guard's hand. He straddled the man, at the same time grabbing him by the throat with his free hand. They hadn't come to bring him to General Roach, they had come to execute him!

_Gee, shot while trying to escape. Now there's an original idea!_

Grae pulled the trigger, repeatedly firing off bullets into the wall as he struggled with the guard. Who had ordered the execution? Roach? Bradshaw? Mason? The President? There was no real way of knowing. The only thing he knew for sure was he'd have to write the Canadian Consulate and file a complaint!

Once, twice, three times he smashed the guard's hand onto the floor, trying to dislodge the weapon as the man grunted and growled beneath him. _Damn thick neck! Was that a recruiting point?_ If time had run out for him, did that mean that it also had for Dickins and Hummer? He had to get back there! Had to do what he could to help . . .

The clapping of boots down a corridor announced the arrival of more soldiers. The problem was Grae didn't know whose side they were on. With a grunt of determination he smashed the guard's hand on the floor once again, this time the weapon skittered out of reach. Then with a lunge, he bolted back towards the dead man. He needed to reach the gun if only to defend himself . . .

"_Freeze_!"

xxxxx

"We're over a barrel, General!" President Gibson spat, his face reddening with anger, obvious even on the holographic display. "Right now, WASA is telling the entire world that there's an imminent 'Cylon threat', but that we're organizing a defence with these supposed visitors from another star system coming to our rescue! For Christ's sake, every goddamned sat-phone in the country rang fifteen minutes agoalerting us to the same thing! They had a complete monopoly on our phones for an entire ten minutes! They're still monopolizing television. How on Earth did they even _do_ that?" He looked off-screen for a moment. "Shut up, Monroe. That was a rhetorical question." He sat down heavily on his desk. "Listen, General, if we shut WASA down and the media goes dark, after news like that the world will panic. It will be _War of the Worlds_ all over again. And if we allow them to continue, we're validating everything they say. Who's to say, they won't pirate the _whole_ communications net again?"

"Mr. President? LM Dayton on line one, sir," a secretary interrupted.

"_What_?"

"Requesting a press conference, sir. Televised."

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

"I realize all that, Mr. President," General Roach pressed on with practiced patience. "Sir, we've all seen the footage of this supposed space battle between Captain Starbucks and the Cylons . . ."

"Is it real. Yes, I know. If it's real, then we had better find this Captain Starbuck, and fast. If it isn't, they're playing us for patsies. But to what end?"

"Starbuck's in Kazakhstan, Mr. President," Mason suddenly announced quietly. Roach almost leapt out of his skin, the intel man had slipped in so quietly. "Director Borodin of the GRU has questioned him, determining the authenticity of these reports. I spoke to the director not long ago in conference with Chairman Whatley of Great Britain and Commandant von Silenen. . ."

"The Swiss Guard?" Roach asked, his eyebrows raised. "What the hell . . .?"

"Surprisingly, the Cylons are real," Mason continued, "and they have one at Baikonur to prove it."

"Suddenly changing your tune . . ." Roach commented. He waved off one of Bradshaw's men who had just entered the room and was trying to get his attention.

Mason pressed on, ignoring the others. "One that WASA has kept from us since their ship crash-landed on the moon almost two months ago, Mr. President. According to this intelligent, thoughtful being, we have it backwards, Mr. President. The Cylons are _not_ our enemies. In fact, sir, they have come to offer us a peace accord."

"And Captain Starbuck?"

"He has confessed, Mister President. He's an insurgent sent to deceive us all. As a symbolic sign of our allegiance with the Cylons, he must be executed."

xxxxx

Dickins sighed, sitting up and dangling his legs off the edge of the bunk. This was it. _It_ with a capital _I._ Obviously, Grae Ryan was dead and now it was his and Hummer's turn. He sighed again, running a hand over his unshaven face. _Sorry, Paddy. I tried to warn him._ _Maybe if you'd been around to teach him a few things . . ._

The two men opening the cell door had an air of death about them. Just as had the two that had taken away Paddy's son. An instinct to survive battled with an overwhelming disgust; a grief at what this world had become. He couldn't stand to look at Hummer just now. Poor kid. Come clear across the galaxy and for what? What the hell had he sacrificed his life for? Nothing! A total zilch! The more he came to know about this day and age, the more he figured that maybe they were _both_ better off dead. If only he'd been able to see Anna again first . . .

Slowly, he rose to his feet, ready to face death head on. He sucked in a steadying breath and let it out again. Vaguely, he wondered what had happened to Ama. Or maybe that had all been a dream.

"What happened to last words?" Dickins asked as a weapon raised to sight him while the cell entrance slid open.

The man nodded briefly, lowering the weapon ever so slightly. "Go ahead."

"The Lord is my shepherd. . ." Dickins bit his lip. Although he'd never admitted it to his friends, he'd given up that way of thinking long ago. There was no absolution to be found to atone for what he'd done over the years. There was only justification. A man could either live with what he'd done or he couldn't. There was no going back. No second chances. He looked up at the soldiers, meeting their eyes. "Go ahead. Do it."

The man raised his weapon and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

_Ama, I could kiss you!_

Dickins sprang forward.


	29. Chapter Seven: Part Three

Dorado sighed from the Control Centre on the _Endeavour _as Porter drilled his fingers on the console once again. The older man's patience was wearing thin while he continued to listen in on transmissions they were picking up from Earth..

"Any word?" the Earthman asked again.

"None," the captain replied, glancing at his chrono. "No word for the last . . . twenty-three centons, Doctor."

"What the hell is taking them so long?" Porter demanded, as much of the air as of the other man. "We've got places to go, people to see, bad guys to find."

"A ruptured reactor vessel. It must be a mess down there. You said so yourself."

"Did I _imagine_ Sir Gala . . . Mark saying 'quick in and out'? That _was_ our fearless leader, wasn't it?"

"It was," Dorado agreed, turning his attention to Coxcoxtli to quell his own rising anxieties. "Any progress on the _Clavis_?"

"None, sir. What's worse, it seems to have embedded itself in the _Endeavour_'s systems somehow." The others turned to look at him in stunned silence. "Almost like an organic being. Or some kind of virus that I'm not figuring out."

"Come again?" Dorado asked, his heart rate quickening. "How can that be?"

"I'm . . . I'm not sure, sir," the young man replied, his face drawn as he pulled at his Colonial collar. "I've never seen anything like this before. Maybe Malus . . .?"

"Whoa, Nelly!" Porter suddenly announced, his hand to his headset.

"Excuse me?" asked Dorado, once again left befuddled by an eruption of non-standard Earthspeak.

"I'm picking up some pretty bizarre stuff from Earth."

"Put it on, Porter," Dorado replied. Porter punched a key and the speakers hissed to life.

"_. . . peat, we stress that there is no need for panic. Our world leaders have things well in hand. Soon they will be meeting with Captain Starbucks of the Colonial Nation. We will overcome the Cylons and prevail_!"

Porter quickly translated.

"Oh, frack!"

"Get me the landing party. Now!" ordered Dorado. "Go to Yellow Alert! Repeat, all hands, Yellow Alert!"

xxxxx

"We're over a barrel!" President Gibson spat, his face reddening with anger, obvious even on the holographic display. He glanced over at Wright, the Secretary of Defence, who had facilitated this emergency meeting. A hold-over from the previous administration, Wright was a bit of a mystery. Turns out he knew about the supposed Cylon threat, but had waited until he could sit on it no longer before informing his new Chief. That bloody rankled, and if things weren't so tense now, he'd have considered sending the fellow packing for his presumption. The President turned back to the holo-unit. "Right now, WASA is telling the entire world that there's an imminent 'Cylon threat', but that we're organizing a defence with these supposed visitors from another star system coming to our rescue! For Christ's sake, every goddamned sat-phone in the country rang fifteen minutes agoalerting us to the same thing! They had a complete monopoly on our phones for an entire ten minutes! They're still monopolizing television. How on Earth did they even _do_ that?" He scowled at a comment from his right. "Shut up, Monroe. I do know how it works. That was a rhetorical question." He sat down heavily on his desk. "They're demanding we free the _Unity_ and Space Shuttle _Endeavour_'s crews, as well as this Captain Starbucks, _and_ they're insisting on a tele-con with President Kuzmin, Prime Minister Webster and myself."

"Then let's shut them down, sir," Secretary of Defence Wright said. "This is terrorism, Mr. President. We don't negotiate with terrorists."  
"Listen, Secretary, General, if we shut WASA down and the media goes dark, after news like that the world will panic. It will be _War of the Worlds_ all over again. And if we allow them to continue, we're validating everything they say. Who's to say, they won't pirate the _whole_ communications net again?"

"Mr. President? LM Dayton on line one, sir," a secretary interrupted.

"_What_?"

"Requesting a press conference in the East Room, sir. Televised."

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

"I realize all that, Mr. President," General Roach pressed on with practiced patience. "Sir, we've all seen the footage of this supposed space battle between Captain Starbucks and the Cylons . . . at least up until the weapon he used knocked out every satellite within range . . . "

"Is it real. Yes, I know. If it's real, then we had better find this Captain Starbuck, and fast. If it isn't, they're playing us for patsies. But to what end?"

"Starbuck's in Kazakhstan, Mr. President," Mason suddenly announced quietly. Roach almost leapt out of his skin, the intel man had slipped in so quietly. "Director Borodin of the GRU has questioned him, determining the authenticity of these reports. I spoke to the director not long ago in an official conference with Chairman Whatley of Great Britain and Commandant von Silenen. . ."

"The Swiss Guard?" Roach asked, his eyebrows raised. "What the hell . . .?"

"Surprisingly, the Cylons are real," Mason continued, "and they have a specimen at Baikonur to prove it."

"Suddenly changing your tune . . ." Roach commented. He waved off one of Bradshaw's men who had just entered the room and was trying to get his attention.

Mason pressed on, ignoring the others. "A Cylon that WASA has kept from us since their ship crash-landed on the moon almost two months ago, Mr. President. According to this rather compelling being, we have it backwards, Mr. President. The Cylons are _not_ our enemies. In fact, sir, they have come to offer us a peace accord. I maintain that WASA is still trying to mislead you. We cannot cooperate with them. We cannot give into their continued terrorist threats. As the principal advisor to yourself, the National Security Council and the Homeland Security Council, I recommend we accept this peace accord with the Cylons."

It was a complete one-eighty and President Gibson really couldn't have been more surprised. "And Captain Starbuck?"

"He has confessed, Mister President. He's an insurgent sent to deceive us all. As a symbolic sign of our allegiance with the Cylons, he must be executed."

xxxxx

A cold shiver of what he figured _must_ be apprehension enveloped Starbuck, as he tortuously waited long centons for Director Borodin to get suited up before the Russian could enter his cosy little isolation chamber with Lucifer. The pressure in Starbuck's head and sinuses from this "common cold" he'd contracted was unbelievable. At least he _thought _that was what it was. It had first been described to him as "a minor rhinovirus infection", which his languaphone rendered as something about a large horned animal invading a computer . . . which sounded about right. The second attempt offered up "communal chill". Well, whatever it was, it felt like a tylium energizer about to explode. Abruptly, he jerked upright as an overwhelming tickling sensation from the front of his face erupted into a convulsive expulsion of air from his mouth and nose. To his horror, his nose began running like a raging river bursting its banks. He groaned in disgust, looking over with watery eyes at the attractive colonel and realizing he looked about half as appealing as the Boray leader, Nogow. Maybe even less so. Fat chance that he'd be using his famous Starbuck charm to get Colonel Natalya Something-or-other Katko on his side before Borodin started in on him.

Another hacking cough gripped him and his chest burned with pain once again. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his body, joining the steady stream of mucous that was gushing from his face. He struggled to catch his breath as spasm after spasm racked his starved lungs. His chest heaved with the effort and his head swam from the exertion.

"Drink," the colonel again told him, pressing a straw insistently against his gasping lips. "You must remain flooded." He shook his head, deciding that either he was delirious or his languaphone was.

He hacked as he pulled on the proffered straw, coughing anew when the cold water went down the wrong way. He doubled over, his body convulsing. She lightly slapped him on the back, as if she thought he was choking on something . . . other than humiliation, of course.

"Sagan's sake . . ." he gasped as the burning in his chest finally eased off. He didn't fight against the steady pressure of the colonel's hand against his chest pushing him backwards, collapsing against the waiting pillows. The chill air prickled his sweaty skin while he lay there catching his breath. He began to shiver slightly. Lords' sake, he couldn't remember ever feeling this bad from the usual mundane Colonial viruses before.

A cool cloth wiped his face and he sighed in pleasure, closing his eyes for a blessed moment of comfort. His raw wrists burned where he'd been pulling at his restraints. It felt as though several centons had passed, but a quick glance towards Borodin showed the director still suiting up and on the other side of the isolation chamber airlock.

"Thanks, Colonel," Starbuck said thickly to Katko, clearing his throat. He needed the answers to some questions and fast. He lowered his voice. "Is Director Borodin . . . is he your superior officer?"

"It is _I _who am supposed to be asking the questions," she replied indignantly.

"Tell you what, I'll give you one for one. An even exchange, Colonel." He smiled at her before eying the director's progress once again. "Is Borodin your superior officer? He's not in uniform."

She considered him for a moment, also glancing in Borodin's direction. Drawing upon a lifetime's experience in reading people, his assessment of the situation gave him the impression she didn't trust the Russian man. Well, he didn't exactly have a warm fuzzy feeling about him either.

"No, I am a colonel in the Russian Air Force. He is the Director of the GRU . . ." Katko paused as he shook his head in confusion. "The Main Directorate of Russian Intelligence." Borodin had introduced himself that way on the landing strip. Katko narrowed her eyes. "Who are you _really_?"

"I already told you." He coughed again, willing the maddening tickle in his throat to desist. "Captain Starbuck of the Colonial ship, _Endeavour_. My mission is to help defend Earth from an imminent Cylon attack. I'm here to help." Dubiously, he glanced at his restraints. "Although it's more difficult while bound to an examination table."

"It is a big ship, this _Endeavour_?" she asked, digesting the information.

"Bigger than anything you've got," he nodded. "But that was_ two _questions, Colonel. My turn. Why do you people treat folks who are only trying to help you like some kind of science experiment?"

"We do not grant trust easily." Her voice was clipped.

"I understand that to a certain extent, lady. Where I come from, we _earn_ trust. But we generally give strangers the benefit of the doubt." He couldn't help but think about Dayton. Lords, they hadn't accused the Earthmen of lying about their origins when they had picked them up on the pirate asteroid. They hadn't locked them up, restrained them, probed and studied them. Although a time or two it might not have been a bad idea . . .

_What the Hades Hole is it about Earth?_

"And where _I _come from we don't call colonels in the Air Force 'lady', _Captain_." She stressed his lesser rank. "Can you prove who you are? Where is this ship? Your crew?"

"Is that what it would take? You want us to land the _Endeavour_ on your front lawn and give you a laser show?"

"Seeing is believing," she replied as she sat down on a chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I'm getting that," he replied, his gaze swinging to the door as it slid open. Borodin and Lucifer stepped inside.

"Well, Lieutenant Starbuck. What a curious surprise. You must tell us how you came to be here . . . and the coordinates of the _Galactica_, of course, " said the IL.

Starbuck at once noticed the other was using Earthspeak, rather than either Cylon or Colonial Standard. "Been a long time, Lucy," the pilot replied in kind through the technological magic of _English In An Instant_. "Actually, I was hoping you'd been incinerated over Planet 'P' with the rest of your crew when we destroyed your Base Ship." He flashed his most ingratiating grin at the Cylon.

The IL's lights seem to speed up for a moment. "It will go better for you, Lieutenant, if you show a little respect. I am not the one restrained here."

"I'm a captain now, Bubblehead. And you're _still_ a mong-raking Cylon."


	30. Chapter Eight: Part One

Chapter Eight

Okay, maybe it _wasn't_ the brightest thing he'd ever done, provoking an IL Cylon while he was sick, imprisoned, restrained _and_ naked, lying in some kind of quarantined cell on a planet he'd never been to, but the glimmer of amusement and respect in Colonel Katko's enchanting eyes while he needled the enemy made it all worthwhile.

Until he saw the hypo in Director Borodin's hand.

"Wait just a centon . . ." Starbuck jerked against the restraints once again. "Hey, I'm military! I'm all up to date on my vaccinations!"

Borodin smiled cruelly, taking off the cap of the needle and reaching for the warrior's arm. He paused a moment to lightly touch Starbuck chest, his eyes narrowing and his expression changing. "What's this?"

"Come again?"

"This mark! What is it?" Borodin looked at Lucifer. "Can you explain?"

"It is not something that I am familiar with," the IL admitted. "I would guess that it is a symbolic Colonial mark of some kind."

"Yes? Is this true?" Borodin demanded of Starbuck. "What does it represent?"

The director seemed curiously intrigued about the scar that an Empyrean amulet had seared into him on Alrin, when he'd been on the receiving end of a laser blast. The blast had hit the talisman that Ama had insisted he wear around his neck on the mission to recover Luana and Sheba from a routine patrol gone wrong. It had saved his life, but had left the permanent mark behind which Ama had sworn would protect him. He could have had it repaired, the marks erased with the ease of a Life Station laser treatment, but it had seemed pointless at the time. Besides, if there was any inkling of truth in what Ama had told him, he was always one to stack the odds in his favour . . . especially while fighting Cylons and the like of Count Iblis on a day to day basis.

"If I get two more just like it, I get a free fumarello from Empyrean Tobacconists," Starbuck adlibbed, unsure why Borodin's face twisted into an angry glare as the director again brandished the hypo in his hand.

"This will force you to tell us the truth." Borodin suddenly grinned like a sociopathic street tough. "You _will_ tell us what we want to know."

Colonel Katko jumped up from her seat, stepping forward to intervene. "Director! Has Dr. Sidorenko approved this? Captain Starbuck does not react to our standard pharmaceuticals as other humans do! This might very well send him into another state of psychosis! Or even kill him!"

"Irrelevant. Ultimately, Captain Starbuck will be executed regardless, to prove our allegiance to our new Cylon allies. These orders are coming directly from the Kremlin, Colonel. Stand down now!" Borodin snapped as he pulled on Starbuck's arm, straightening it and palpating a large vein inside his elbow.

"Kill me and you're going to have one very angry commanding officer of a Colonial capital ship bearing down on you, seriously debating if saving our long lost brothers is such a good idea, after all!" Starbuck shouted, twisting and bucking against the restraints as he felt the needle pierce his skin. Abruptly, it was torn away as Katko shoved at the director's arm. Apparently, he'd made a better impression than he had first thought on the attractive officer.

Then a piercing shriek filled the air and Natalya Katko dropped to the floor limply. Behind her Lucifer was holding some kind of weapon that had silently discharged into the woman. It looked like some kind of archaic stun baton.

"What the frack did you do to her?" Starbuck demanded, looking from the fallen woman to the IL.

"Interesting. I thought chivalry was dead. She is merely unconscious," Borodin commented, once again roughly grabbing Starbuck's arm and palpating the now bleeding flesh. "Now, where is this _Galactica_ of which Lucifer speaks? And tell me of this mark on your chest, as well! If you cooperate, I can promise you your death will be swift and honourable. If not, well . . . " He left the threatening words dangling, somehow making the message even more menacing.

"Look astrum-wipe, I happen to know that truth drugs don't work! They may loosen a guy's tongue, but that's about it!" Starbuck taunted the man. After all, it was just over seven sectons ago that Guidobaldo had forced some drinkable variation on Starbuck when he'd been interrogated on the _Rising Star_. It was possible, of course, that the Earthlings had discovered something that the rest of them hadn't in several thousand yahrens. As the needle again penetrated his flesh and a faint burning spread up his arm, he searched Borodin's soulless eyes, but the man's expression was unreadable. Was he bluffing or not?

"We shall see." Borodin chuckled quietly, standing back to observe.

Starbuck shook his head, feeling as though he was being slowly dragged downwards into a rapacious vortex. He groaned as his stomach roiled at the unexpected physical sensations and he struggled to focus on something—_anything_ that would keep him grounded. A few centons later, his body began to melt into the mattress in reaction to the drug. His vision blurred and he blinked to clear it, as the lighting above turned into a radiant and sparkling expanse that seemed to stretch infinitely onward.

"Sagan . . .this is good stuff," he murmured, letting out a breath as he seemed to rise into the air on a cloud of blissfulness. If he could just get enough altitude, he could fly right out of there . . . Then again, why were the Earth man and the IL floating up there beside him? That didn't make sense. He blinked rapidly, vaguely aware that his head had stopped pounding and he could once again breathe through his nose. Borodin and Lucifer blurred into one another, and he closed his eyes at the hideous image of man melding into Cylon. "Oh, _frack _. . ."

"What are the coordinates of the _Galactica_?" a disembodied voice asked.

"You're asking _me_?" He laughed, finding the idea hilarious. On this stuff, he barely knew where his nose was in relation to his face. They wanted to know where . . . Uh, just what was it they wanted to know again? Laughter burbled up inside of him again. An unpleasant pressure on his shoulder demanded he open his eyes. His laughter died on his lips as he looked at the blurry face gazing down at him with an ingratiating grin. "_B-baltar_?"

xxxxx

"Captain Dorado, Commander Dayton's landing party isn't responding," Cadet Pierus reported, fingers pressed to his earpiece.

"What?" Dorado asked disbelievingly. "No response?" he moved to the commsuite, pressing the standard hail. There was only static in return. "Have you tried the emergency channel?"

"Yes, but no response on that channel, either. They must be out of range beneath the surface, sir," Pierus replied.

"Right." He looked to scan. "Sweep the base. Try and find them."

"Sir." After a few moments, Sagaris shook his head. "The radion from the reactor is still making felgercarb of our scans, sir."

"Try a concentrated scan. Narrow beam. If that doesn't find them, use overload power on the scanners. If _that_ doesn't work, we'll dip down and make a low pass over the base, next orbit."

"Sir."

So . . . down on Mars Commander Dayton had yet to rescue a group of fellow humans exposed to a power reactor failure, while on Earth Starbuck had somehow managed to blow his cover and warn that world's leaders of an impending Cylon threat that they were organizing against. Logic dictated he stay put, but knowing as he did how Starbuck usually defied logic, it made him abruptly rethink his decision. A compromise was the best he could do for now.

"Contact Phoenix squadron leader," Dorado ordered. "They're to kick in their turbos and head directly for Earth. Let them know that Starbuck has already made first contact.

Keep an eye out for Cylons and assist in any way they can."

"Aye, sir," Pierus replied.

xxxxx

Grae's grip tightened on the butt of the dead guard's weapon, as the herd of stampeding soldiers surrounded him. It was the newest semiautomatic by Beretta with the direct barrel-slide locking system that had regained the five hundred and twenty-five year old Italian firearms company the contract with the US military. Sweet piece. Somehow the name escaped him when there was six more just like it aimed at his head, but hey, such things happen. His hand twitched as he weighed the odds. If he so much as even tried to secure it . . .

"I said, _Freeze_! If you pick up that gun, you know we're going to shoot you, Ryan. That's a promise!"

"I didn't _do it_!" Grae protested, desperately looking around him. His heart pounded in his ears as cold, unforgiving faces stared back at them behind their shiny new 9mms. He didn't dare let go of the gun. Not yet. As soon as he took his hand away, one of them would kill him. They wanted to, he could tell. Wanted to _so_ bad. They'd blame it on nerves or a crazed look in his eyes. Anything to finish the job.

"He sure as hell did! He grabbed my gun and shot Moe dead in cold blood!" the surviving guard protested, rolling over and cradling his pulverized hand against his chest. The men surged forward as a unit. "He's a killer! Shoot him!"

"_Stand down_!" the officer roared, getting even Grae's full attention. It was Colonel Bradshaw, the base commander. He, also, was armed. His men hesitated. "Put them away_, now_! That's an order! He's unarmed!"

"Not quite," one of them muttered, ever so slowly starting to holster his weapon.

"Do as I say, or you'll be cleaning out latrines on Diego Garcia by the end of the week! _All of you_!" he shouted, keeping his own weapon pointed at the astronaut. "Let go, Ryan," Bradshaw snapped. "I'm trying to save your life, damn it!"

"_He_ shot the guard. _I_ was next," Grae said, his hand twitching over the 9mm so temptingly close. He looked around, hoping to see some signs of surveillance that could have caught the whole incident. This _was _Cheyenne Mountain, after all! You couldn't use up the TP roll without it being recorded by someone.

"Liar!" the guard spat. "I didn't see it coming, Colonel! He's faster than . . ."

"Shut the hell up, Morgan!" Bradshaw blared, then turned to his men. "Take Morgan to the stockade until we sort out this mess." He looked back at the astronaut. "Now drop it, Ryan!"

It wasn't like he had a lot of choices in the matter. Grae slowly withdrew his hand from where the gun rested in the dead man's holster. He raised his hands in surrender, squatting back on his haunches. "Look, Colonel, I don't pretend to even _think_ I know what's going on around here, but this man of yours just tried to _execute_ me and make it look like I was escaping. Escaping from _what_? More questioning? I haven't actually done anything illegal and you all damned well know it!. Besides, where would I _go_? This is goddamned Cheyenne Mountain! Jaysus Murphy, what the hell would I do? Switch places with the pizza delivery guy?"

Bradshaw stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, jerking his head at two soldiers who in response began to lead Morgan away. "That's _my _man, Ryan."

"Well, sir, unless you're telling me that _you_ gave him those orders, then I can only suggest his allegiance lies elsewhere," Grae replied evenly, trying to keep his voice steady. "If they're desperate enough to start eliminating loose ends right here inside the Fortress, then I'm willing to bet whoever is giving those orders goes after Dickins and Hummer nex . . ."

"Colonel!"

Both Bradshaw and Ryan looked up to see the soldiers who had been escorting Morgan leaning over the now-supine soldier further down the corridor. One was obviously looking for signs of life.

"He collapsed, sir! Started convulsing!" said the second man.

"Well?" demanded Bradshaw.

"He's dead, Colonel!" the first soldier exclaimed before starting CPR.

"It . . . it was so fast, sir. He just . . ." the other told him, before squatting down to help his fellow soldier.

"What the _hell _is going on here?" Bradshaw muttered, holstering his weapon. Then: "Get the medics down here now!"

"_Colonel_ . . ." Grae said urgently.

"Right. I want a team in the quarantine unit! Ten minutes ago!" Bradshaw barked. He nodded at Ryan. "You're coming with me, Ryan. Let's move!"

xxxxx

"Well?" Jess Dayton asked Mirskii in the Control Centre of the Baikonur Space Centre. So far, President Gibson hadn't responded one way or the other to their demands and the hour deadline was just about up. Meanwhile, one of the three Cylon fighters in Earth's orbit had just moments ago finished burning up in the atmosphere, and another looked like it would soon follow. The third was still inert. However, they'd received a few visuals from WASA probes that had recorded sightings of more Cylon ships in the star system, but the capital ship over Mars still appeared to be holding position. Surkov had his military forces across Russia at high alert in the event of an attack, but all external sources said from a military point of view he was alone in this. It was only some hard bargaining with President Kuzmin and the "inexplicable absence of Director Borodin" in the last thirty minutes that had achieved this at all.

Anxiously, she looked over her shoulder. Surkov had disappeared to talk to his subordinates on a secure circuit. He had to find a way to reassign the Spetsnaz Forces and mobilize them without Borodin becoming aware too soon. After all, if it came to a battle between the two military forces, it could only turn into a bloodbath. Conveniently, the director of the GRU was still occupied interrogating Starbuck with Colonel Katko in attendance, or so Surkov had consoled her. But Russian Air Force Commander In Chief had also promised her that if she stayed put and took care of her end of things that the Colonial Warrior would be free soon. Surkov didn't give his word lightly.

"Nothing, Director Dayton," Mirskii replied.

"Patience, Jess," Orlov said. "Time is not yet up." He was trying to force a calm that he couldn't possibly feel.

"That depends on your point of view, Sergei," she replied. "If they haven't . . ."

"Director Dayton," Mirskii interrupted. "I have your sister on a private line. Commcircuit _veh._"

"Put her through!" Jess said, crossing to the station and picking up the headset. "Lauren?"

"Good times, huh sis?" The levity in her voice was so typical of her sister. She swore sometimes the kid would be flippant on top of a live volcano.

"Adrenaline junkie," Jess accused her, smiling. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Lauren replied. "But I wish I knew what was going on. Guiana just received a digital video file from the White House that they want us to broadcast. It basically has President Gibson reassuring the American public with a bunch of nebulous claptrap that I'm sure will ease Joe Average's mind."

"And?"

"And they refuse to even contemplate our demands until we've broadcasted it and have deactivated Killstar. My sources tell me that Marshall Leach of the UK and General Metencourt of France have forces standing by to lift off. Maybe it's just me, Jess, but that sounds like a blatant military threat. If they hit French Guiana . . ."

"Damn! Listen Lauren, you've checked out President Gibson from his silver spoon days to his inauguration. Give it to me straight, how screwed are we?"

"He's a pretty boy with a great smile and a respectable service record, Jess. Perfect fodder for the Oval Office, if you aren't looking for substance. The top players that put him there never figured him as having much for brains _or_ backbone, so I'm guessing they counted on applying the right amount of pressure and having him fall in line if the time ever came."

"What do _you_ think?"

"It could go either way. If we come up with the right proof to make him realize that someone else is trying to pull those Presidential strings he probably doesn't realize he's wearing . . . well, he might surprise everybody." She considered it a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, he might just come through if we play it right."

"What would _that _take?"

The line went quiet as LM Dayton considered her answer. "A hero."

"You have one in mind?"

"I do. What about the Presidential broadcast?"

"Play it. Then it will at least appear that we're meeting them part way. Also, follow up that report with another monitoring Leach and Metencourt's military readiness. To the public it will look like they're standing by, but Presidents Gibson and Dupont and Prime Minister Webster will realize that we know what they're up to. Have our ASATs standing by, just in case. We've already landed one Lightning in the drink, we'll do it again if we need to."

"Will do. I'll get back to you." Lauren seemed to think a moment. "Anything further from Mars?"

It was like a splash of cold water that penetrated the sleep-deprived fog she hadn't even realized she was in. It had been so long since she'd actually talked to her sister that she hadn't even _told_ Lauren yet. Then again, it still didn't seem real and certainly not possible. "Not since the last scheduled transmission didn't happen and they went silent. The carrier's still established, but so far . . ." She sighed, absently pushing her hair off of her forehead as she tried to think of a way to break the news. "But there is hope. The Colonial capital ship is in Mars' orbit. And Lauren . . . you'd better be sitting down for this."

Lauren snorted obnoxiously, apparently thinking otherwise. "You always say that."

"Our fa . . . Da . . ."

"You're breaking up, Jess."

"Tell me about it," she replied wryly. The last time she'd seen Mark Dayton she had been five years old. She was a bit well seasoned to be referring to him as "Dada" these days, and "father" just seemed too formal. "Commander Mark Dayton is commanding that warship, Lauren. He's alive."

There was utter silence on the line.

"Lauren? You there?" Jess asked.

"Yeah," came the whispered reply.

"We spotted the ship and thought it was Cylon. Starbuck set me straight. But before that he told me our father and most of his crew are alive. Somehow they ended up light- years away when the ISS exploded, sending them through some kind of wormhole. They got knocked clear across the galaxy, but survived. Captain Dickins is one of the men who came back in the _Endeavour_ two months ago."

"The probability of this . . ." Lauren stuttered. "I mean . . . aw Hell! Our . . ."

"Yeah, I know. But I believe him."

"_You_ believe him? Ms. Cynicism 2025 through 2055." She snorted again. "The one who actually asked the Santa at the Mall for his ID once!"

Jess smiled. "Yeah, that's me."

"Shit, I have to think about this. I have to go. Later, Jess." The line went dead.

Jess nodded, pulling off the headset as her people looked at her expectantly. She knew just how overwhelmed Lauren felt about now. "Stay safe, little sister," she murmured under her breath, before turning to update them.

xxxxx

"It is truly an engineering marvel, Commander," Malus announced as the Earth-style turbo lift descended into the abyss. It had taken long centons to find a way down into the crater, and when they did they had had to bring the transport back up to the upper level. As above, the lighting was dim, but they could still make out the unmistakeable shape of about two-thirds of a gargantuan pyramid jutting out from a wall of crumbled rock. It was the only real intact structure they could make out, although the enormous blocks of rock lying around clearly indicated that surrounding structures had also once been of a mammoth size. At some point something had utterly devastated this area. "The anomalous scans I was picking up were the remains of this condensed tylinium dome which I can only surmise at one time covered an entire settlement here on Mars, encapsulating and protecting it. I would theorize that the tunnels we detected earlier could have connected it with other settlements, as yet undiscovered."

"Cydonia," Baker inserted.

"I would even go as far as to conclude the dome provided encapsulation for an artificial atmosphere congruent with human survival," Malus continued. "I have nothing in my data banks remotely comparable in Cylon history either."

"Why Mars when Earth's atmosphere was already compatible with life?" Apollo wondered aloud, shaking his head in wonder at the results on his scanner.

"I am afraid I do not know, Colonel," Malus replied. "Admittedly, it is a problem I cannot as yet resolve."

"We already know they went to Earth as well," Baker inserted. "But for some reason they settled here too."

"Before we left, there was a lot of debate about whether or not Mars actually had a more habitable atmosphere at one time. That it was warm and wet with an environment that could have been hospitable to life," Dayton inserted. "Granted, not that I gave it much thought back then. I believed the so-called reputable scientists who dismissed it as conjecture."

"_Alleged_ conjecture. Makes you wonder how much bullshit we were actually being fed our whole lives?" Ryan replied. "Someone was lying."

"Or maybe they thought they were protecting us from the truth," Dayton offered. "As in 'you can't handle the . . .'"

"God save me from well-meaning liars," Baker said.

"Exactly," Ryan nodded. "Someone wanted us to go on believing that we were the only intelligent life in the universe, despite these little nuggets of evidence like the pyramids, Easter Island, even Atlantis and Lemuria, not to mention all that crap out by Saturn, that pointed to humanoids from somewhere else in the universe."

"Why?" Baker asked.

"It limits your capacity for development," Lia inserted.

"How so?" Jolly asked.

"Look at our Empyrean civilization," the ensign replied. "Once we parted ways with the rest of the Thirteenth Tribe and gave up our technology and went back to basics on our own isolated and provincial planet, our civilization was scientifically stifled. Admittedly, some of that was by choice. For generations, technology and science were considered almost evil and were spurned by our leaders. It would have led to our ruin if the Fleet hadn't happened upon us."

"Yet once you integrated into the Fleet, your people adapted fairly quickly," Apollo added.

"Ama was very supportive and encouraging," Lia explained.

"Sweetheart, no offence, but even when we left Earth it was a damn sight more technologically advanced than you Empyreans were," Ryan said. "In fact, we had entire institutions devoted to scientific research, for its own sake."

"Yet, the way I understand it, your culture and even your space agency didn't take the existence of alternate sentient life forms seriously. It was all considered folklore or the fanciful ideas of science fiction fanatics," she replied.

"She has you there, Paddy," Dayton told him. "I remember specifically reading about a Hubble sighting of an X-shaped object flying through space at eleven thousand miles per hour." He chuckled lightly. "NASA concluded that it was either a comet or a Klingon _Bird of Prey_."

"So, of course, we all had a good laugh and assumed it was a comet," said Baker.

"So where does that leave us?" Dietra asked.

"For a start, we know that Count Iblis has been to Earth," Apollo said.

"Yeah, I saw him myself," Dayton nodded. Inwardly, he shuddered, remembering that day. _That face_.

"I wonder when he first arrived."

"He's mentioned in the Qur'an, the Islamic religious text," Baker inserted.

"Which was written when?" Ryan asked.

"Let me check my pocket edition," Baker replied, dramatically putting a hand onto his buttocks. "Damn spacesuit!"

Ryan chuckled.

"About six hundred AD," Dayton supplied. "Give or take."

"You read it?"

"Know thine enemy," Dayton replied with a shrug. "Sun Tzu." They looked at him questioningly. Even Malus. He explained.

"You seem to know a lot about Count Iblis," said Lia. "More than those aboard the Fleet, even though he was there for a while."

"And while there he proved that if he couldn't lead us, he'd just as soon destroy us," Apollo added. "Go on, Commander. I'd certainly like to hear more."

"Your father and I briefly touched on this once, Apollo. I come from a family of scholars," said Dayton. "As we all know, Iblis has something of a history across this universe, even crossing into other dimensions like Morlais. On my world it's the same. He's known by a variety of names."

"Tell us," said Jolly.

"Indeed," added Malus, as always eager for more data.

"The name derives from an Arabic verbal root, _balasa, _meaning 'he despaired', so Iblis is known as the one who causes despair. He is also sometimes called _Shaytan _or _Satan,_ meaning the 'adversary' or the 'opposing one'. In the book Baker mentioned, the Qur'an, it is said that Iblis rebelled at the creation of man when told to prostrate himself before Adam, and then declared that he was better than man. I quote: _Iblis said, I am better than him. Thou createdst me of fire while him Thou didst create of clay. _For this, he was cursed and cast out of Paradise, and has spent every moment since filled with a vicious hatred of humanity, working to corrupt and destroy."

"Tough crowd in Paradise," Ryan murmured. "I ain't so fond of grovelling, myself."

Dayton smacked him on the back of the helmet, the lesser gravity making the gesture more humorous than intimidating.

"Ow."

"An interesting parallel with how Iblis is known in Colonial history," said Dietra.

"Absolutely," Apollo nodded.

"And he didn't exactly win any popularity contests in Morlais, either," Ryan said.

"So perhaps somehow over the centuries, Count Iblis put some plan in place whereby there was a concerted effort made to brainwash people to deny the existence of life outside of Earth," Apollo theorized.

"He could accomplish his ultimate goal," said Cassie. "That, coming after the Colonies."

"No more humanity," added Jolly.

Apollo nodded thoughtfully. "And so one day when an advanced race of beings comes calling on Earth to warn against an impending Cylon attack, no one believes it."

"One helluva plan, actually," Dayton replied. "Only _I'm_ still having a hard time believing it myself. How can you not believe what is right before your eyes? I mean, hey, a Base Ship on your screen ought to count for something."

"Sometimes truth is based solely on our perception. We won't see what we don't want to when long established beliefs are challenged. We get angry. Confrontational. We close our minds and instead accuse people of being irrational," Ryan returned. "Remember, there was a time when we used to burn witches at the stake. Looking back through a different lens, it looks a lot different."

"You're saying witches were Kobollians? That's a bit of a leap, isn't it?" Dayton countered.

"Salem's sake, Batman, not at all." Ryan snorted. "Remember, at some point in Earth's history ancient beliefs and rituals were either cast aside or more attractively repackaged to embrace the newest religion. People stopped revering the celestial sun to instead revere the Son of God. One son for another. So if you really examine Christianity . . ."

"Keep that line of thought up, Paddy Ryan, and I'll personally throw you off this platform to your death," Dayton growled at him.

"Ah, he illustrates my point. Angry _and_ confrontational." Ryan patted Dayton's shoulder, consoling him. "Down boy. Don't get your knickers in a knot. I'm just tossing out ideas like everybody else. The way I see it, sometimes the difference between gods and witches or demons is barely discernible."

"I swear Ryan, _sometimes_ . . ." Dayton grumbled.

"Think of it like this, Paddy," snorted Baker, "in this gravity, you'll fall slower."

"That's a comfort."

"Hey, I see lights! They're moving towards us!" Jolly interrupted, turning the beam of his illuminator downward as they drew closer to the bottom of the pit. The others did the same.

Below them a small party of astronauts was heading towards the bottom of the lift.

"Does this qualify as first contact?" Baker asked, his voice tense.

"The jury's still out, but I'll let you know soon," Dayton replied. "Malus, get us on their frequency."

"Scanning."


	31. Chapter Eight: Part Two

"Report, Centurion," IL commander, Syphax, of the _Abaddon_-class Base Ship, _Ravager_, ordered as he moved into the ship's Control Centre.

"By-your-command. One-of-our-recon-patrols-is-overdue."

"Which patrol, Centurion?"

"Patrol-Four. It-is-overdue-for-check-in-by-twenty-four-centons."

"I see. What else?"

"We-are-picking-up-transmissions-in-the-same-quadrant-originating-from-the-third-planet-from-the-sun. The-voices-appear-to-be-human."

"_Appear_ to be?"

"They-are-not-speaking-any-language-known-to-Cylon."

The emergency beacon that they had first detected had originated from the single moon of this third planet. It was the signal Syphax had been programmed to expect. "Delta class, and if the Imperious Leader is correct, harbouring the lost tribe of Kobol." At long last he would fulfil his destiny, gaining victory and glory for the Cylon Alliance. Finally, he would be able to return to Cylon as a conquering hero and be recognized by the Imperious Leader for a dedication to duty that went far and beyond that of any other.

"What of our other patrols, Centurion?"

"They-have-detected-only-primitive-probes, Commander, similar-to-the-probe-we-brought-aboard-before-reaching-this-system. No-other-indications-of-life-forms."

The probe had been perplexing, as it had carried an auric-anodized aluminium pictorial plaque that crudely illustrated a human male and female in scale against the probe, as well as a group of planetary bodies, including what appeared to be the original trajectory of the probe. Other more abstract illustrations they had not deciphered yet. One showed fifteen lines emanating from the same origin. The other . . . thus far they had no promising hypotheses.

"More primitive probes. Interesting," said Syphax. He called up telemetry from one of the patrols. Sure enough, small, automated probes, heading outwards from the system had been scanned. Showing either low power or none at all, they had evidently been launched many yahrens ago. None presented any threat to them. They could have nothing to do with the overdue flight crews. Yet for the patrol to have gone missing, something unexpected must have happened.

Syphax checked the fuel status on the other patrols. Yes, it could be done. "Redeploy our recon patrols in that quadrant. Have them rendezvous and send the squadron to investigate the region of the third planet." Whatever had overcome the three Raider patrol would likely fall prey to a wing of seventy-five Raiders. If not, by then the other two squadrons assigned to reconnaissance in the outlying planets would have rendezvoused with the _Ravager_, and the capital ship would be on its way.

"By-your-command."

"Of course."

xxxxx

General Roach could barely believe it. Mason had looked so damned smug when they had broken off the holographic teleconference with the President that it was all Roach could do to not pummel the man to a pulp. According to a long-standing chain of command that had served the United States government well for nigh on fifty years, it appeared to him that President Gibson was actually considering following Mason's recommendations on a peace accord with these robotic Cylons in consultation with the Secretary of Defence, Jim Wright. A late arrival from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Jack Edwards, had cinched it. In addition, as soon as the meeting had ended and Mason had disappeared, Roach had been notified of the sudden inexplicable murder attempt on Grae Ryan and a subsequent suicide by the accused. Now the general had far more questions than answers as he tried to track down Mason to demand an explanation.

Meanwhile, NORAD had updated him that the three Cylon fighters were still dead in orbit, so he wasn't getting any indications there about what the robotic aliens truly wanted. All eyes were on their still functional satellites, trying to pick up anything they could of Cylons _or_ Colonial Warriors on approach to Earth. The worst part, as he saw it, was that when he had recommended to the President increasing their defence readiness condition to DEFCON 2, Mason had immediately balked, arguing that it might be perceived as a sign of _aggression_ by their new allies. Insanely, they had stepped down the current level back to DEFCON 4. Even more absurdly, Wright and Edwards had agreed. It had left him wishing that he had the forethought to include the Chiefs of Staff of Naval Operations and the Army, as well as the Commandant of the Marine Corp in the emergency meeting. He had been outnumbered, and common sense had been overpowered by bureaucracy.

His sat-phone rang and he glanced at the display curiously. After all, it had become a useless piece of junk after WASA had seized the satellite grid and started transmitting their propaganda. He snorted in disbelief. He couldn't believe _she_ had the gall to call him. She was as tenacious as a junkyard dog . . . or a reporter. He snapped it open viciously, answering in much the same tone: "Roach."

"What's going on, General? The President doesn't seem keen on my press conference," LM Dayton said. "The American people have a right to know what's happening."

"How _dare_ you . . ."

"Lighten up, Roach. _Listen_up. There are a few truths that you're not going to like, but I'm going to tell them to you anyway. I'm that kind of gal."

"_Dayton_ . . ." Roach growled.

"Ever hear of Albert Pike?"

"I get the feeling I'm about to . . ." replied Roach, closing his eyes and rubbing them to ease the growing ache building behind them.

Dayton sniffed in apparent amusement. "He was an attorney, a writer, a soldier and a Freemason. He's the _only_ Confederate military officer to be honoured with a statue in Washington, DC which stands in Judiciary Square."

"Yeah, I remember hearing about him at the Academy U.S. military history. So?"

"His remains," Dayton went on, "are in the House of the Temple in the Home of the Supreme Council, Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, Southern Jurisdiction, in Washington D. C. He was Sovereign Grand Commander, a thirty-third degree Freemason . . ."

"A _what_?" he asked, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

"The degrees represent stages of development in the Order, General. First degree is an apprentice, second degree is a fellow-craft, third degree is a master, etcetera. The first three degrees are considered Symbolic Masonry, the average member. Four through thirty-two are referred to as Philosophic Masonry. Everything after that is considered Esoteric Masonry. Pike was at the top of the ladder. He wrote several books, one of which was published in 1871 called _Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Masonry._In it he stated that Masonry conceals its secrets from all except the Adepts and Sages, or the Elect, and uses false explanations and misinterpretations of its symbols to mislead those who he says deserve only to be misled. Masonry conceals the Truth, which it calls Light, from the majority of the members, to draw them away from it. Truth, he said, is not for those who are unworthy or unable to receive it, or would pervert it. Only the top five percent of Freemasons were enlightened, leaving the other ninety-five percent totally unaware of the inner workings of the elite."

Roach grunted.

"Pike went on to say that every man's conception of God must be proportioned to his mental cultivation and intellectual powers, and moral excellence. That God, as man conceives Him, is the reflected image of Man himself. That the Masonic religion should be, by all of the initiates of the high Masonic degrees, maintained in the purity of the Luciferian doctrine . . ." She stopped, holding a few beats.

"Lucifer?" Roach croaked, a feeling of dread sweeping over him.

"Yes, _Lucifer_ was the god of those high ranking Masons. Pike said in his book that Lucifer was God, and that 'unfortunately' Adonai—one of the biblical names for God—was _also_ God. That the Eternal Law is that there is no light without shade, no beauty without ugliness, no white without black, for the absolute can only exist as two gods, darkness being necessary to light to serve as its foil. I quote from _Morals and Dogma_: 'the doctrine of Satanism is a heresy; and the true and pure philosophic religion is the belief in Lucifer, the equal of Adonai.' You see, in Luciferian doctrine there is no Satan. Instead, God has a dual nature of both good and bad, as do we all."

"Nifty," he downplayed it. "When they start a course of Masonic theology at the Academy, I'll put a word in for you with the Secretary."

"That may be sooner than you think, General," she replied wryly. "Pike also wrote that Adonai was the _rival_ of Osiris, the Egyptian sun god, a prominent figure in Masonic traditions." She paused a moment. "By the way, Lucifer, the 'light bearer' recently arrived on Earth, in the physical form of a Cylon." Another pause. "How does that grab ya, Roach? Personally, it scares me silly."

"Are you done?" Roach asked, instinctively rebelling at what she was suggesting.

"Far from it. Moving on now. Both Director Mason and Secretary Wright have something in common that you probably don't realize."

"Are you trying to tell me they're closet Masons of the highest degree?" Roach snorted sceptically, a scepticism he wasn't certain was as solid as it might have been five minutes ago. "I'll be damned. Director Mason is a Mason! Why the hell didn't I see _that_ coming?" he laughed aloud.

She paused, as though innately understanding he needed a minute to absorb all of this. "Actually, Roach, they're Yale men."

He blinked. "Why the _hell_does it matter what university they graduated from, Dayton?" Roach exploded.

"Ever hear of the Order, Roach? Skull and Bones?"

That story was as old as the hills. He knew that Skull and Bones, with all its ritual and macabre relics, was founded in the 1800s as a New World version of secret student societies that were common in Europe, especially Germany, at the time. Since then, it had reportedly chosen or "tapped" only fifteen senior students a year who became patriarchs when they graduated— and lifetime members of the ultimate old boys' club. The Order boasted some of the most powerful men of the 20th and 21st centuries: Presidents, Supreme Court justices, leaders of industry, and often their children, comprising a social and political network like no other. However, those goddamned conspiracy freaks had taken the venerable old circle and had turned it into something nefarious, claiming that the highly secret and once completely fraternal order had furthered the globalist aims of their brethren in other equally covert groups. "That's utter and complete crap!"

"Just like the Cylons, Roach?" LM Dayton replied. "Wasn't it only a few hours ago that you thought the Cylons were the mad ravings of WASA with the intent to secure more private funding through terrorizing the public?"

Roach drew a deep breath. As much as he'd never concede it, she had a point. He lowered his voice to a conversational level. "What do you want, Dayton?"

"Researchers have traced the origins of the Bonesmen back to _even more ancient_ Secret Societies, Roach, like the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, the Freemasons, and the Rosicrucians. Are you still with me Roach?"

"Yeah," he murmured.

"Now, imagine a pyramid of power with you, me and the rest of the peons grovelling down at the bottom, with these secret societies somewhere in the middle, and, if you will, the World Monarch at the top. I'm not going to waste your time drawing you a picture, Roach. You're a bright fellow. But some very powerful people, that same top five percent in these ancient secret societies, have been moving towards an ultimate goal for longer than most of us care to contemplate. At the very heart of it is a being—yes, that's right, I said a _being_— that wants our civilization either destroyed as we know it, or subjugated through his new world order. Loyal to him is a group known in some circles as the Crown Council of Thirteen, made up of the world's richest and most powerful people. I have it on good authority that our Colonial brothers and sisters have a Council of _Twelve_ that is the ruling body of their nation, originating from each of their twelve tribes that migrated to their colonies from their mother world. The Thirteenth Tribe—the missing member of _their_Council—is the one that left that same world thousands of years ago for Earth. They're the ancient astronauts that researchers, astronomers, ethnologists, and mathematicians—better known in your sandbox as crackpots and freaks—have been investigating and writing about since at least 1897. Interesting parallel, don't you think?"

"_Dayton_!" Roach snapped. "Get where you're going with this or I'm going to hang up!"

"Where I'm going with this, Roach, is the fact that not only are our Secretary of Defence _and_ our Director of National Intelligence members of an influential ancient order that its members are sworn to secrecy about, but they're currently putting the full court press on our new President."

He suddenly felt sick. "What about Jack Edwards? The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

"His father belonged to another old and powerful group known as the Bilderbergers, but I don't have time to go into that right now." Again, she paused. "Happen to know where President Gibson went to school, Roach? Hmm . . .? Any guesses?"

"Oh, shit. Yale?"

"Give the four-star general a prize! Now, I'm going to tell you straight that even though President Gibson is a Bonesman, he's _not_ a member of the inner circle, like Wright and Mason. I maintain hope that with the right support and evidence, he'll come through this with his honour _and_ his country intact."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Answer me something first."

"What?"

"Is Grae Ryan still alive?"

"Of course!" She didn't need to know that it was by the skin of his teeth.

"Alright, then. I'm telling you all this because I know that underneath that gruff US Air Force Academy graduate exterior, is an honourable man who loves his country. Who, more than anything else, is one of the vast majority that is simply ignorant of what has been going on all around them. Those conspiracy theorists—as you all like to call them—have been hitting the nail on the head for a long time now. Only, it's easy for those same powerful men in the know to twist and mutilate verifiable facts to make researchers look as though they're not playing with a full deck, from David Icke claiming that we originated from green lizards to all those wing nuts that insist Jesus Christ was actually Satan. It's the classic turd in the punchbowl, Roach, designed to make the public lose all confidence in anyone or any theory that deviates from established history. As the old Schopenhauer quote goes, 'all truth passes through three phases. First, it is ridiculed, second, it is violently opposed, and third, it is accepted as self-evident'. This is a time for heroes, General. And I'll take a military man of simple origins over a Blueblood politician of the Order any day of the week."

Roach's mind was reeling from the implications. It was impossible. He couldn't believe it! "That's _absolutely_ . . ." He cut himself short before Dayton did, as it occurred to him he was in phase two. Violent opposition. But what else was a man to think? He'd dedicated his life to serving his country, for Christ's sake! He'd been mocking this exact kind of propaganda since he was old enough to think . . .

_Phase one, Roach. Ridicule_.

_Had_he been thinking, or had he just believed what he and everybody else had been told? Wearily, he ran a hand over his face. "Shit, Dayton. Where the hell do we go from here?"

"I thought you'd never ask. Okay, General, as to where to start, how about you have a look at the dope on Roswell. 1947."

"Oh, come on! That . . ." He stopped, shaking his head. Hadn't Grae Ryan made reference to Roswell just hours before? Why were they so damned determined to open up that old can of worms? "Tell me why."

"Look, General, if we can prove that certain powerful people within the government actually covered up the appearance of what we already know were Cylons back in 1947, well, it would sure raise questions about why the government had been accusing WASA of fear mongering for all these years. Imagine just how far that would go toward making President Gibson actually listen to us now. Especially with all the lies that Mason has been poisoning him with since all this began."

Strangely, it felt almost profane even thinking about going into files that had long been closed, even buried, and had even longer been contentious. He'd always supported the official story. Now his belief in so much more than the questionable existence of spacemen was being challenged. "Is this legit? I mean . . ."

"General," she replied, her tone softening a bit, "you are the United States Air Force's top man. The Chief of Staff. You've got more fruit salad on your uniform than the buffet line at _Golden Griddle._ You can look at any file you like. But I recommend you look deeper. Talk to Grae Ryan. He'll know what we need."

"Alright," he said reluctantly. "I'll get back to you."

"Thank you, General. And your country thanks you too."

Roach made a rude noise.

"Over the top?" LM Dayton chuckled.

"From _you_, yes!"

"A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Roach replied irritably before he severed the connection.

xxxxx

Starbuck had to be hallucinating. He just _had_ to! The sight of Baltar had acted like a bucket of ice water down his pants, bringing him down from his mind-altering high, but still leaving him feeling befuddled. Baltar was in Morlais with Eirys, in a dimension utterly separate from this one! There was _no way_ in Hades Hole that he could be smiling down at Starbuck now on Earth.

"But I _am_, my young friend," Baltar corrected him calmly, fanning his hands wide. He was dressed in a shimmering white robe and cape that looked curiously like Council wear. "I most certainly am."

Starbuck shook his head in disbelief. It had to be the drugs!

At least he _hoped_ it was.

"Did you say 'Baltar'?" Lucifer asked from a metron away, his head popping up in a very human fashion, disbelief in his tone. Not only had the flashing of his brain core sped up, but his eyes had stopped dead, focused directly on the pilot. "Answer me, Starbuck!"

"You don't see him?" Starbuck whispered, still staring at the resplendent form above him. Baltar had that same ethereal radiance that the warrior associated with John. Either the universe had tipped over on its side or these drugs were _really_good!

Possibly both!

"I believe he's hallucinating, Director Borodin," Lucifer said. "Baltar—a former prisoner of the Alliance—is now dead."

Which made a certain amount of sense, Starbuck reflected, in an hallucinogenic way.

"Are you?" Starbuck asked as Lucifer and Borodin's ensuing conversation blurred into the background. Normally, his uniform would turn white when he was contacted by a Being of Light or transported to their ship, but in this case he was as naked as a newborn babe and had no real frame of reference. Well, other than the white sheet that discreetly covered him. Did it have a slightly diffuse glow to it, or was that his imagination? He held his breath a moment, considering it. Then his imagination started talking to him again.

"Death is so narrowly defined by our people, Starbuck," Baltar said patiently, with an unfamiliar air of dignified wisdom so unlike the odious man he had once known. "I prefer to consider myself 'spiritually evolved'."

"_You_?" Starbuck echoed hollowly.

Baltar frowned, affecting a pained expression. "I'm hurt, Starbuck. I've honestly come to help, I swear to you. By all the Lords of Kobol. Ama sent me."

"Ama sent _you_? To help _me_? Is this a practical joke?" Starbuck gasped.

Baltar chuckled. "I had a feeling you might react this way." He leaned closer, smirking as Starbuck pressed himself into the mattress, instinctively recoiling. "I know it seems like last secton to you, but for me deca-yahrens have passed in Morlais, Starbuck. You know that the Angylions are much more spiritually enlightened than the Colonials. Since you helped free Morlais, we have . . . _evolved_ as a race. I'm _not_ the man you knew."

"Really? Who are you then?" he replied as a spectrum of colourful lights began to dance across his vision.

"Think of me of your . . . guardian angel," Baltar replied with a saintly smile.

The former Betrayer of Mankind as Starbuck's guardian angel—it was just his luck. Even after all they'd gone through on Morlais and afterwards, it was simply too much to contemplate. "Oh Lords of Kobol, take me now," he muttered.

"My young friend, that's what I'm trying to prevent," Baltar told him. Then a glimmer of a frown crossed his features. "Oh, that's unfortunate."

"What is?"

A sharp pain stung the right side of Starbuck's face. He blinked as he realized that Borodin had just slapped him. Hard. The colourful lights disappeared leaving the murderous visage of the Russian in its place. "Couldn't have prevented _that_, Baltar, could you? Being my guardian angel, and all."

Baltar appeared to be trying _not_ to smile—and was failing miserably. "I'm afraid I do have my limitations, Starbuck."

"He appears to be rambling nonsensically and has lapsed back into Colonial Standard, Director Borodin. You may have miscalculated with your truth serum," Lucifer was saying.

"I'm only going to ask you one more time," Borodin snarled, grabbing Starbuck's jaw roughly, forcing the warrior to meet his gaze. "Where is the _Galactica_?"

"Not very original," Baltar commented.

"Yeah. You know, Baltar, if I only had a cubit for every time that someone asked me that," Starbuck mumbled, "I'd be a rich man." He smiled, recalling that he'd recently seen one of Dayton's Earth movies with a song about that. A catchy little tune where he hadn't needed to learn much more Earthspeak. For some reason, singing it now seemed like a good idea. Baltar nodded his encouragement. Or maybe he was nodding off. Yeah, they probably got tired even in the other dimension. Anyway, let's see now, how did it go? Ah, yes . . . he cleared his throat. "_If I were a rich man . . .__Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.__All day long I'd__biddy biddy bum_. . ._if I were a wealthy man_. . ._I wouldn't have to work hard_ . . ."

_Slap!_

"Ow," Starbuck murmured, the other side of his face now stinging with the same intensity. He glanced over at his so-called guardian angel, who so far didn't seem to be doing much to guard him, and also didn't seem all that angelic. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. "Didn't see that one coming, huh Baltar?"

"Actually, I rather thought you deserved it," Baltar returned in amusement. "You'd better stick to the Colonial Service, Starbuck. You have no future on the Star Circuit."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," he replied as Borodin screamed incoherently over him, his face turning red with rage. "Huh?"

"He still wants to know where the _Galactica_ is," Baltar replied calmly.

"Baltar, the _Galactica_ . . ."

"Quiet!" Baltar snapped, cutting off the explanation. "You realize that they can hear you too!"

They couldn't hear or see Baltar, but they could him. It struck him he'd played this game before with John. _Without_ the drugs. It was all a little too confusing just now. "Why is that exactly?"

"Yes, tell Baltar where the _Galactica_ is, Starbuck," Lucifer said suddenly, leaning over him. "He would certainly like to find out."

"Huh?" He looked between Baltar and Lucifer. The rules kept changing. "You can see Baltar now?"

"Quite plainly," Lucifer replied, his lights flashing. "I would know that unctuous smile on his face anywhere. Oh, yes, that is Baltar."

Starbuck glanced at the former bureautician. "I thought you said . . ."

"He can't see me," Baltar shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "He's lying, like all the rest of his diseased race. Only _you_ can see me, Starbuck."

"Lucky me," Starbuck replied wryly as Baltar chuckled quietly in return. The warrior looked back at the IL. "Lucy, you can't trick me. I'm smarter than that." Starbuck grinned widely. "Plus I have my very own guardian weevil. Your old commanding officer, in fact."

"Guardian _weevil_?" Lucifer echoed.

"Don't antagonize me," Baltar frowned, looking more like his old self. "That's _angel_,"

"So far you're more of a weevil, Baltar. I'll tell you when you earn your wings, Bub. I'll have you know that I've seen _It's A Wonderful Life_. I understand how this guardian angel thing works now."

Baltar rolled his eyes upward. "Nobody said it would be _easy_." He sighed. "Listen closely, Starbuck. I'll say it slowly so you can keep up." He leaned in closer, passing through the IL who was still leaning over him. "Lucifer has convinced Borodin that there will be an allegiant treaty between Earth and Cylon. That he is the Light Bearer that Borodin's people have been waiting for. That _you_ are, in fact, the enemy."

"_Light Bearer_? Old Bulb Head? How could . . .?"

"Iblis has already left his mark on this man," Baltar glanced at Borodin. "Although Borodin doesn't understand the complexity of it himself, he has been moulded his entire life for this moment. As have others like him who have reached positions of importance in their societies." He frowned bitterly. "Power is an intoxicating thing, Starbuck. It makes a man lose his insight, his judgment and his humanity."

Starbuck felt his chest tighten as he realized that Baltar wasn't only talking about Borodin. He was speaking of himself. Did Count Iblis somehow coerce or manipulate Baltar into betraying the Colonies . . .

"Borodin has convinced some world leaders—or those who have their ear—that this treaty will strengthen mankind's position. In reality, Earth as they know it will be destroyed." Baltar said. "Does this sound at all familiar, Starbuck?"

News like this had a way of bringing a guy _all_ the way down from his happy cloud. "Holy frack! It's. . . it's the Twelve Worlds all over again!" History repeating itself light-yahrens away.

"Precisely. There was a passage in the Book of the Word, Starbuck: What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun," Baltar told him. Then he said slowly: "I can't erase what I once did, but if I can help prevent _another_ disaster . . ."

"You'll get your wings." Starbuck nodded slowly.

Baltar's mouth gaped open as he gazed at him in frustration. "_I'm not trying to get my wings, you dimwit! I'm trying to save your life_!" he hollered. Then he drew in a long breath, turning away to compose himself. This time his tone was mollifying. "Your life and that of every living man, woman and child on Earth, Starbuck. When the Fleet finally arrives, do you want this planet to be a burnt out husk or the thriving centre of humanity?"

"Well, when you put it that way," he murmured.

"Quite," Baltar agreed. "Shortly, there will be an attempt on the Russian President's life. We must intervene. Are you ready?"

"For what exactly?" Starbuck asked hesitantly, not liking the way Baltar had prefaced it. His guardian weevil smiled altogether too smugly. Then the warrior's restraints suddenly dropped from his wrists and ankles, and the door of the containment unit slid open.

"To escape."


	32. Chapter Nine: Part One

Chapter Nine

Starbuck didn't have time to think, only react, as he was suddenly freed from his restraints. He lurched upright, reaching for the Earth-style stun baton that Lucifer had used on Colonel Katko, abruptly discharging it into the IL. The Cylon jerked and shuddered, emitting what almost sounded like a scream of pain, as hundreds of voltons of electrical energy shot through its circuitry, disabling it as it tumbled to the floor with a resounding crash.

"Guards!" a wide-eyed Borodin screamed as the warrior advanced. Fortunately, there were none that Starbuck could see.

"Ah, I thought so. You're not so tough when it's just you and _me_, Bub. Are you? Yeah, doesn't matter what planet you're on. You bullies are all alike," Starbuck told him, throwing the stun baton up in the air and watching in amusement as Borodin's eyes followed it. He punched the Russian in the gut. The man began to double over, eyes huge, mouth agape. Starbuck gripped the back of the soft head gear, slamming the man's head into his knee and saying a silent prayer of thanks that the protective head covering was softer than the original gear they wore before delousing him. The satisfying crunch of the impact more than made up for the any pain in his knee. The director collapsed in a heap.

Suddenly mindful of his nudity, he squatted on the floor beside Borodin, tugging at the protective suit, determined to make it his own. _Liberty and then modesty, Bucko._ Beneath the suit, the man wore his shirtsleeves rolled up. Starbuck blinked in disbelief as he noticed a mark on the man's arm that looked similar to the Empyrean talisman. What was it Borodin had said? The all-seeing eye? _What the frack . . ._ It was damn close to the Empyrean mark on his chest. Absently, he ran his fingers over his scarred flesh. A variation of the ancient symbol of the Empyreans . . . what was it doing on an Earthman? It didn't make much sense. Hades Hole, what _did _make sense around here? Meanwhile, Lucifer sounded like he was short-circuiting as he smouldered in the corner. One red eye flickered on and off, but the IL did not move.

"You don't have time for that, Starbuck," Baltar told him hastily.

"Oh yeah?" Starbuck returned, jerking the jumpsuit down the director's legs with renewed determination. "While I'm sure you'd get a laugh out of me running around here naked, Baltar, I'd just as soon . . ."

"You think I've come here to humiliate you? To torment you?" Baltar accused him indignantly, before adding with a smug smile, "Although it does have a certain appeal, I admit."

"Ah, so I'm not the only one who's noticed there's a pattern?" Starbuck rejoined, standing up and hastily pulling on the protective suit. He squatted down beside Colonel Katko, checking for life signs. A steady pulse beat reassuringly beneath his fingers. "Katko? Wake up, sweetheart."

She groaned quietly, probably at his choice of words, but didn't stir.

"There's no time!" Baltar again insisted.

"Well, if you're really with the Ship of Lights, _make_ some! I'm not leaving her here with these two!" His words were made a little less biting by the wracking cough that suddenly shook him. He pulled the colonel upwards, grunting as he manipulated her over his shoulder. As the effects of the drug they had given him dissipated, the symptoms of his Earth virus were beginning to return with full force. He sucked in a deep breath as he stood, feeling light-headed with the change in position. Holding a hand against the wall, he steadied himself, adjusting his load. The throbbing in his head and the burning in his chest were returning with a vengeance.

"It wouldn't be very noble to pass out and drop her on the floor, Starbuck," Baltar needled him. It wasn't very angelic of him, in the warrior's opinion. "Why don't you just leave her. I assure you, she will be safe."

"Sagan's sake, I feel like the swamps of Atilla and all its assorted creatures just climbed up my nose and took up residence in my head." The _Endeavour_ captain glanced at the reformed traitor. "Can you do anything about that?"

Baltar smiled. "You're asking for a miracle? From _me_? I must say, that's somewhat heartening. But, alas . . ."

"You can't interfere," Starbuck supplied, heading out of the cell. It was just his luck; the SOL Beings could not interfere with the lives of microbes either! He looked both ways, trying to decide which way to go. Fortunately, his choices were limited by the single open door at the end of the corridor. There were still no guard. "Yeah, I know. Yet you just released my restraints as well as opened the doors."

"For which you don't seem very appreciative, I might add."

"Seems there are a few grey areas around your definitions of interfering, Baltar. Makes a guy wonder why John and his bunch need to recruit more 'evolved beings' if you're all drifting around the heavens _not_ interfering."

"Perhaps it's because there's a cap on the amount of disagreeable time such benevolent beings can spend in the company of antagonizing Colonial Warriors such as yourself," Baltar returned. "Now _move_! We have to save the President."

"Okay, fine. But I didn't exactly get the grand tour before ending up here. Where do we go from here?" He glanced at Baltar with low expectations. "Or are you not allowed to say?"

Baltar turned to go with a flourish of his white cape. "Follow me." Once out in the corridor, Starbuck swore he heard the former Councilman mutter something about "penance".

They turned a corner and Starbuck stopped short . . . faced with a unit of Russian soldiers. "Frack . . ."

They raised their weapons. The grey-haired one in front, wearing a highly decorated uniform, narrowed his eyes as the sight of Colonel Katko slung over Starbuck's shoulder. He raised his firearm, taking a step forward and resting it right between the Colonial Warrior's eyes. Then he cocked an eyebrow and smiled slightly.

"Things cannot get worse, so they are bound to get better. Yes?"

The warrior swallowed the lump of dread in his throat. Then he murmured, "Baltar, is it too late to ask for John back?"

xxxxx

There they were.

Three Cylon Raiders on Lu's scanner, dead ahead. All still in Earth's orbit and each one dead in space. The enemy craft were already beginning to show signs of atmospheric drag. Soon they would be ashes and dust, screaming their way to a fiery death in Earth's atmosphere. From further transmissions she'd picked up, she'd deduced that Starbuck must have intervened and used the Dynamo on these Cylons as they attacked some defenceless Earth ship. Not a bad way to make a first impression with an unknown human civilization really, but then Starbuck had a way of always landing on his feet.

So . . . where was their Base Ship?

Covertly collecting further data on Earth really didn't make any sense at this point, she decided. After all, Starbuck had already blown their cover, albeit for a damn good reason. Commander Dayton needed to know that. Fast. He also needed to know that not only had these Raiders reached Earth, but they had already attacked Earthmen. It seemed that the Edict of Extermination was no different in this star system than in any other. The priority was finding that damn Base Ship before it launched an entire offensive against Earth, assuming locating the behemoth hadn't happened without her knowing about it during her last eight centars of reconnaissance. She scanned as far as her instruments would reach. Aside from the Raiders in front of her, no Cylon craft were detected.

She glanced again at her scanner, seeing the graphic representing Earth's surface. There, in the middle of a huge landmass the data told her was referred to as _Eurasia,_ was the insistent _blip_ that marked the current location of Starbuck's Wraith. She concentrated her scans, collecting as much data on the area as possible. As it poured in, she sighed in frustration, all alone with no one to delegate the crucial assignment of contacting the _Endeavour_ to. The responsibility lay entirely on _her_ shoulders. As much as she was tempted to race planet-side and verify that Starbuck was alright, she had to rely on the transmissions that inferred her husband was holding his own with their ancestral brothers from another galaxy. Her duty, according to the mission profile, dictated that she instead contact her base ship, advise them of the situation, and await further orders.

And it left her with a bitter taste in her mouth.

_Well, Lu, that's why they pay you the big cubits, girl! So you can make those gut-wrenching, galaxy-shattering de __. . ._She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sending up a simple request.

_Ama, if you're out there, keep him safe._

Then she altered course, heading for the _Endeavour_ . . . never detecting the sudden commencement of a single oscillating red light in one Raider.

_xxxxx_

_My God! My own people! Humans from home! I __. . ._

_ They've seen us!_

They were the first Earthmen that Mark Dayton had seen since leaving his native solar system over thirty years before, which was the only reason he could possibly be ignoring the towering ruins and immense pyramid with inlaid hieroglyphics that his instinct told him would look exactly like those in Giza or Kobol on closer examination. Dayton's throat felt tight with an overwhelming emotion as the two groups of humans drew closer to each other. Baker and even Ryan were similarly effected, curiously quiet while Malus searched for their frequency. Then it was time to shake himself out of his reverie and focus on the moment at hand. _C'mon, Mark! You've dreamed about this moment for thirty plus years! Get with it!_

A tone in his helmet told him that Malus had found the appropriate frequency. Dayton cleared his throat.

"Who are you? And what the hell is _that_?" demanded one of the others pointing a shaky hand at Malus, and coming to a halt at a safe distance from the _Endeavour_ party when the lift hit the surface. Their suits were white, much as NASA's had been in the old days. It made sense on a dusty red dump like Mars. Easier to see. The primary life support system on each suit was, however, smaller than those he remembered, and the suits had articulated joints, making movement presumably easier. One had red stripes around the upper arms, designating a mission commander, again, like the old days. Over the heart was the _WASA _logo patch, portraying an image of Earth cradled in its star system with a stylized spaceship pointing upwards, riding a tongue of flame and capped by a swath of light. The Latin logo, _Ad Infinitas Et Ultra!__,_completed the image. He grinned.

Again a voice came over the helmet speaker, tinny and badly modulated: "Identify yourself."

"I'm Commander Mark Dayton of planet Earth, born in Chicago, Illinois, Colonel in the US Air Force, Mission Commander in NASA, transported across the galaxy in 2010, and more recently put in command of the Colonial Covert Operations Ship, _Endeavour_." Then he added, "I'm back."

For a moment there was only a stunned silence. The suited figure in the lead came a little bit closer, staring at them. Now that they could see his face, it appeared shocked and confused.

"Mark Day . . . Holy . . ."

"Lo and behold, I think they've proclaimed a religious holiday in your name, Mark," Paddy said.

And then . . .

"Why _you_. . ."

In a sudden rage, another of the men threw himself at Dayton. The _Endeavour_ commander startled, not expecting it. Instantaneously, Baker and Ryan came between the two men, not allowing the Earthman to put so much as a hand on their friend in the lower gravity environment, and backing him up as they had done now for over thirty years. Malus moved a step closer, putting a "hand" to his weapon. Together Ryan and Baker shoved the younger man backwards towards his own people, and the Mars crew caught him, restraining him for the moment.

"Things must have really changed on Earth. In our day, the correct response was to hold our your hand, say 'nice to meet ya', and introduce yourself in kind," Ryan growled across at the others.

"Yeah. I guess they don't read Emily Post, anymore," snarled Baker.

"What the _hell _was that all about?" Dayton demanded, waving a restraining hand at Lia, Jolly, Giles and Dietra who all had their hands on their weapons in readiness.

"_Traitor_!" shouted the young man. "We thought you were dead. _Hell_, my father defended you, you _bas-tard_!" He spat out the word, hatred etched in every line of his face through his faceplate. With a shake, he tore himself free from his comrades. "It was all true! You sold them out! You killed them!"

"Whoa, now!" another man cried, stepping forward from the Mars group. His suit bore the command stripe. "Shut the hell up, Johnson! Right now if Benedict Arnold, Brutus and Judas arrived and offered me a lift home, I'd take it! We don't exactly have a hell of a lot of options, here!" Others murmured their agreement. They were desperate men.

"Well, aren't _you_ in good company," Ryan remarked, looking back at Dayton.

"Who?" asked Malus. Ryan turned to him, and mouthed _'later'__._

"Care to explain?" Baker demanded. "What the hell are you guys talking about?"

"What is _that_?" someone again demanded, pointing to the IL.

"Think of him as a computer on legs," Baker inserted.

"I prefer to think of myself as an alternate sentient life form," Malus replied.

"Is that a . . . a . . . _Cylon_?" someone gasped. "I thought . . ."

"Hey! Everybody slow down here!" Dayton barked. "This here cyborg is with _us_. He's _not_ with the Cylons!"

"Commander, I am touched . . ." Malus said, his head glowing warmly.

"Not now, Mal," Dayton snapped. "Who's in charge here?"

"I'm Tom Curtis, in acting command of the Barstow Station here on Mars. Look, cut us some slack. We've just been through hell and back and lost quite a few of our people, including Commander Chung. Tell me again just who you guys are and how you came to be here." He ran his gaze over the rest of the party and it lingered on Malus. He shook his head incredulously before locking his stare on Dayton once again. "We weren't expecting help from any other quarter except our own. We'd pretty much reconciled ourselves to . . ." He paused, drawing a ragged audible breath that everyone heard on the channel. "Well, never mind that. Everything's changed now. _Who_ are you?"

"We're both warriors and envoys, representing the Colonial Nation of Man," Apollo inserted through the languatron, stepping forward. He kept it simple. "I'm Colonel Apollo of the _Endeavour_. We've come to help in any way we can."

"What kind of doohickey is that?" someone muttered pointing to the languatron.

"Some kind of translator, I'm guessing," another said.

"_Colonial _Warriors? Then it's really true! There really are other human colonies! Twelve actual planets!" Curtis gasped. "The Guardians are for real!"

"Come again?" Apollo replied.

"Then Nibiru is. . ." someone gasped.

"You're the Anunnaki . . ." Curtis mumbled simultaneously in disbelief. _"__Those Who Came To Earth From Heaven.__"_ He paused for a moment."But how did the crew of the _Endeavour_ end up hooking up with the Anunnaki . . .? You're supposed to be dead . . . unless what they said all those years ago was actually true . . ."

"What? The Anunnaki?" Dayton repeated incredulously, casting his mind back to his younger days. Growing up as the son of scholars, he'd once been immersed in this stuff, whether he liked it or not. It took a second or two. "The Sumerian gods? What the devil are you talking about?"

"All this," Curtis replied, waving an arm around him at the remnants of the ancient extraterrestrial civilization that the Colonials had immediately connected to the Thirteenth Tribe.

"You think this has something to do with Enlil, Enki and the rest of the Sumerian gods?" Dayton asked, momentarily letting go of the fact that they had classified him in the same company as some of history's most infamous traitors, but were apparently willing to forgive him, at least for as long as it took to hitch a ride home. "You've lost me, Curtis."

"Zecharia Sitchin?" Ryan asked. Dayton looked at him inquisitively, trying to place the familiar name. From somewhere wafted an image of his father, the Egyptologist, saying something about this. Curtis was nodding.

"He developed a theory that attributed the creation of the Sumerian civilization to the Anunnaki, but furthermore insisted that the Anunnaki weren't just your average gods of ancient mythology, but an alien race from a planet called . . . jog my memory. What was it again? One of you mentioned it," Ryan paused, looking back at the Mars crew.

"Nibiru," one of the Earthmen supplied. "Dr. Ahmed Mufti." He bowed his head slightly.

"Paddy Ryan, originally of Earth." He nodded at the other. "Thanks, Dr. Mufti. It's been a while. Anyway, I remember Sitchin claimed that recovered ancient Sumerian clay tablets actually recorded their true history, not their mythology, as traditional scientists and historians believed. That those same tablets indicated that beings came down from the stars and founded the earliest civilizations. That there was some kind of cataclysmic event that had planets colliding, creating Earth, the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, and the comets in the Kuiper Belt."

Mufti nodded again. "The ancient Sumerians accurately described and diagrammed the planets Uranus, Neptune and Pluto, even though at that time those planets couldn't have been seen without the aid of a telescope. It was convincing even to sceptics."

"Wait a minute, didn't Sitchin's time line start almost a half million years ago?" Baker asked. "After the Ice Age?" He added by way of introduction, "Lieutenant Colonel Bob Baker, US Air Force. Retired and then some."

"Give or take fifty million years," Commander Curtis replied. "He also theorized that humans were created by the Anunnaki as a worker race for the purpose of mining gold all over the world. He founded several of his theories on the Book of Genesis, tracing those directly back to detailed Sumerian texts as the source. It wasn't a popular theory . . . unless you were one of those crazy conspiracy theorists that was trying to attribute everything from Jesus Christ to just about every war that ever happened to the behind the scenes machinations of secret societies that went all the way back to ancient Egypt."

"But what we've discovered here on Mars will erase most scepticism," Mufti continued, pointing towards the pyramid. "We've theorized that the Anunnaki were actually one of Thirteen Tribes from a star system far from our own. Sitchin had it wrong. The cataclysmic event had nothing to do with colliding planets and an original twelve planets in this star system, but with the death of the ancient mother world of all of mankind's creation, with some references to ensuing ancient wars. The twelve planets from the Sumerian texts didn't refer to ones in _this_ star system. Instead, they referred to a star system with twelve _other_ planets. All habitable. The missing Twelve Tribes of Mankind." He looked at the searchingly, waiting for them to confirm it all. "But then you know all this."

"Sagan sakes," Apollo murmured wandering near a collapsed pillar. He shone his illuminator over the pictorial symbols etched in the stone.

"I remember now," said Dayton. "Dad mentioned Sitchin's theories once. Hell, he mentioned them _a lot_, usually in conjunction with terms like _crap, garbage, trash, bunk, _and such. He was a scholar, not a goofball monger. Still . . ." He looked up, and around. He could not deny the evidence of his own eyes. "This particular goofball monger was obviously on to something. You know, I hadn't really given it much thought before, but the Twelve Tribes of Mankind . . . they could be a Biblical parallel. The Twelve Tribes of Israel in reference to Jacob's sons."

"But there were _thirteen_ actual tribes that left Kobol," Apollo pointed out.

"And there were _thirteen_ actual tribes of Israel," Mufti clarified. "Jacob adopted the two children of Joseph—Ephraim and Manasseh—and their descendants are counted as separate tribes. But the number twelve certainly repeats itself in world history and mythology. Don't forget the historical references to the twelve disciples of religious lore and mythology pertaining to Jesus Christ, as well as dozens of other well documented historical messiahs, such as Horus, Krishna, Dionysus, Mithras, and countless others. "

"Then there are the twelve signs of the Zodiac being almost identical to those planets in the Colonies," Baker mused. "Gemon, Piscon, Caprica and so forth," he elaborated, seeing Curtis' brow furrow.

"As well as a common ecliptic coordinate system," Dayton added, "with the ecliptic being the origin of latitude, and the position of the sun at vernal equinox being the origin of longitude." His head was swimming from all the information. He glanced at Cassie who was quite obviously champing at the bit to run her biomonitor over the Mars crew and ensure they were all right. He realized guiltily he hadn't even enquired as to any injuries or as to what had happened inside the base. But since Curtis hadn't brought it up, it could obviously wait a few more minutes. "Are you saying that inside the remains of that pyramid is historical documentation that substantiates where and when the Kobollians first settled on Earth, and the effect they had on our civilization?"

"Kobollians?" Curtis asked haltingly. "Who or what are the . . . Kobollians?"

"Who gives a rip?" snarled Johnson, arms crossed. "Damned traitor."

"Stow it, Mister!" snapped Curtis. He turned back to Dayton. "Ignore him. The rest of us do constantly."

"But . . ." Dayton began.

"Water under the bridge. We'll discuss it later."

"I want to discuss it _now_," Dayton countered, voice brittle. "I'm sensing a little hostility here."

"Just a little?" Ryan asked.

"Fine," Curtis replied, taking a deep breath and letting it out. He shook his head, his reluctance to broach the topic clear. "When the International Space Station exploded back in 2010, a terrorist group associated with al-Queda claimed responsibility. With security being as tight as it was, it was decided that it _had_ to be an inside job."

Dayton could feel the colour draining from his face. All those years of hell, dreaming of the chance to get back home, only to find out that he was Public Enemy number one. "You actually _think_ . . ."

"Shit, I remember them blathering about Nazis and occultists in NASA, but _terrorists_?" Ryan exploded. "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

"All those references to Nazis and occultists went _way _back, some of it prior to World War II," Curtis tried to explain. "Back in 2010 that stuff was easy to ignore. Nobody was left living to point fingers at, after all. Nobody much cared about von Braun and his SS affiliations anymore, or whether Masons ran NASA, but international terrorism was different. America was waging war on it, in fact. Hell, we _still_ are."

"Sounds like the international terrorist became the newest bogeyman, if you ask me," Ryan remarked, scowling.

"Yeah," Dayton breathed, still stunned by this revelation.

"Maybe so, but it was pointed out by various sources that you had a longstanding relationship with the Middle East, from your father's archaeological studies, Commander Dayton, to your own experiences in the Air Force," Curtis replied, looking incredibly uncomfortable, even through his helmet visor. "Your mission in country during the Second Gulf War became public knowledge. And since no remains of the _Endeavour_ or her crew were ever found, it was even theorized that somehow you managed to destroy the Space Station and disappear."

"Disappear _where_?" Baker asked incredulously. "_Off_ the radar? You ever try and fly one of those shuttles, boy? It's like trying to fly an elephant with a busted butt! Not easy to get . . ."

"Two theories, both involving a massive cover up. Either you landed at a private air strip on Earth and went into hiding, or you were all executed to prevent everybody from finding out the truth," Curtis replied, unable to hold anybody's gaze. "Look, not _everybody_ believes it. _Most_ of us at WASA think it was all a hoax, some kind of bullshit story to subject NASA scientists to a new era of McCarthyism." He shrugged. "Those people went through hell. It was no surprise when funding was pulled and NASA was 'temporarily shut down' as they called it to 'reassess the political ramifications of the incident and continued terrorist threat'."

"And after all that, we were recorded in the history books as the NASA astronauts that turned traitor and blew up the ISS," Baker muttered. "Shit. I'm glad Porter isn't here. Hell, Torg would be laughing his butt off if he could hear this!"

"There's no place like home," Ryan muttered darkly. "No bloody wonder Dick and Hummer ended up in the clink. And _we_ sent them back to Earth in the goddamned getaway car . . ."

"_Listen_!" Dayton growled. "The explosion that destroyed the _ISS_ had _nothing_ to do with us! We had friends on the station! One of my _best_ friends . . ." His voice betrayed him, growing thick with long repressed emotion. He hesitated a moment, clenching his fists and willing himself to regain control. He glanced at Johnson who stared back at him with contempt. Marilyn Johnson had been crew on the _ISS_. Could this man be her _son_?

"Then how can you be _alive_?" Johnson demanded, his voice raw with anger. It was clear their current state of life didn't sit well with him. "You should have died with her!" Then he added as an afterthought. "With all of them!"

"The explosion opened some kind of wormhole," Baker explained, his voice tight with anger. "We ended up light years from here. At least twenty-thousand, maybe more. Those people who died on the _ISS_ . . . they were the lucky ones."

"What the _hell_ do you mean by that?" snarled Johnson. "Total bull . . ."

"Johnson!" snarled Curtis.

"Ever been to hell, Johnson?" Baker replied. "Well, we spent thirty years there. We were slaves to tyrants, struggling to survive from one day to the next. Torg and Bex made the Taliban look like a Glee Club. Believe me, there were days that death would have been preferable."

"But it wasn't an option," Dayton spat between gritted teeth. "If we didn't survive, we couldn't escape. Lynn Bond died in one of our early escape attempts. Ben Zuskin got away, only to die in a prison, isolated through a difference in language, star systems away."

"If the Colonials hadn't come along when they did . . ." Baker said, his words breaking off as he glanced at Apollo.

"These men aren't traitors, Commander Curtis, they're survivors," Apollo told them. "It's a sad commentary when men like Commander Dayton, Doctor Ryan and Lieutenant Colonel Baker aren't recognized by their very own people as the heroes that they are."

Curtis nodded, taking a moment to absorb it all. "Could be you're right, Colonel. After all, they could never defend themselves. If you don't mind, right now I want to know about the Kobollians? Who are _they_?"

"In a way, I guess _we_ are," said Jolly, looking at the digital readout in his helmet display rendering the English words. The Barstow crew only heard Colonial Standard in return. Apollo pressed a key on the languatron.

"He said 'we are'. Descendants, anyhow. Kobol was the mother world of humanity that you're speaking of, at least from _our_ perspective," Apollo elucidated, again through the languatron. He briefly described the death of Kobol and the exodus to the colonies, as well as how the colonies had lost contact with the Thirteenth Tribe millennia before. It was obvious they were even more in the dark about this ancient settlement than the Earthmen were. "Now as to whether there were already humans on Earth when the Thirteenth Tribe arrived, I was under the impression that there were. That somehow the Thirteenth Tribe knew that humankind already populated Earth. As far as I know, our ancient records didn't make any reference to the _introduction_ of mankind on Earth."

"We also believe that mankind inhabited Earth before your . . . _Kobollian_ Exodus," Mufti deduced. "And our current population is the blend of two separate genealogical lines of humans, explaining the long-standing historical question of the recorded controversial appearance of Cro-Magnon Man at the same time as Neanderthal Man. So. . . the Anunnaki and your Kobollians . . . are they one and the same?"

Dayton nodded towards the pyramid. It looked to be around the same height as the Pyramid of Khufu in Giza, maybe even taller. Like it or not, he felt the old curiosity, the "inner archaeologist", squirming to get out. To be satisfied. "Let's go look at what you've found and find out."


	33. Chapter Nine: Part Two

Grae burst into the quarantine unit on Bradshaw's heels, fearing the worst and finding something _almost_ that bad. Dickins and Hummer were still alive and well, somewhat to his surprise, standing in front of their containment unit, staring them down. However, from the looks of things, Grae couldn't say the same for their guards. Blood stains covered their upper bodies, making it look as though they had been on the receiving end of a drive-by shooting with an automatic weapon. In addition, both prisoners were now armed and it was clear from their even more battered than usual appearance that they had recently been fighting for their lives.

"Get me the security feed on this!" Bradshaw called back to his men, waving them off to keep their distance. Two more of their fellow soldiers dead, the situation was too volatile, especially with two apparent execution attempts that he couldn't explain. But he'd bet that Mason could. "And notify the general!"

Grae stumbled to a stop, instinctively raising his hands to show he wasn't carrying. Beside him, Bradshaw did them same, cautiously holstering his weapon. "You're okay!" Grae blurted out. "Lord Thunderin' Jaysus, how'd you manage that?"

"Ryan?" Dickins said hesitantly, as if unable to believe his eyes. The 9 mm in his hand didn't waver. Beside him, Hummer's dropped innocuously to his side. The Beretta clattered to the floor.

"In the flesh," the WASA astronaut replied, aware he too looked a little worse for wear from his own fight. "Just barely."

"Thank Ama," Dickins said enigmatically, before adding to Ryan, "Your father would have kicked my ass halfway to Sunday if . . ." he broke off his sentence, swallowing convulsively as Hummer tugged at his arm insistently. The man spoke a few words in his own language. Dickins looked at him, then down at the bloodied guards before meeting Grae's eyes once again. "I shot the bastards. They tried to kill us, and I . . . I shot them."

"Emptied the magazine by the looks of it," Bradshaw murmured beside him. "All seventeen rounds."

"NO!" Hummer protested beside the old astronaut, pointing to his own chest. The man looked resigned to whatever would happen next. "Me do!"

"He doesn't even know what we're talking about," claimed Dickins. "Trust me, if it isn't orbital dynamics or transdimensional plasma physics, he's . . ."

"_ME DO_!" Hummer yelled again, grabbing the gun from Dickins' hand and holding it loosely in his grip. It wavered as he pointed it at the soldiers.

"Either way, it was self-defence," Grae told them, keeping his voice deliberately calm. How much had these two men already gone through? Was this the straw that would break the camel's back? "The security feed will show that."

"There _is _no security feed," General Roach announced from behind them, the clapping of his highly polished shoes echoing on the floor. "Against procedure, it was turned off. Sure as hell looks like another execution attempt to me, and I suddenly can't find Director Mason to top things off." He let out an exasperated breath. "As we all know . . . dead men tell no tales." He turned back to the soldiers still holding their positions at the door. "Wait for us outside. That's an order.

"General . . ." Bradshaw began as salutes were exchanged and the men filed out.

"At ease, Colonel," Roach inserted, waiting until the door had closed. He walked slowly and purposely towards the armed Hummer. "You can put that down, son. It's all over. We know you're our allies, not our enemies. The only explanation I have is that of ignorance." Dickins looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. "I know it's not much, Captain Dickins. But it's all I have. That and my abject apologies and regret. We've been a bunch of blind fools." He smiled humourlessly. "And to boot, I find myself in the awkward position of asking for your help, after our government has imprisoned you, humiliated you, and put you through a living Hell."

"Our . . . our _help_?" Dickins asked incredulously. "I'd just as soon punch you in the nose, mister . . ."

"I don't know if anyone explained it to you, Captain, but the reason you've been vilified is that the destruction of the ISS was linked by our government to terrorist involvement back in 2010. It was the beginning of the end of NASA, although some say the administration of the day had already crippled the program sufficiently to make an impact. Your entire _Endeavour_ crew stood accused in absentia, but could never be tried due to the amendments upheld in our constitution."

"Yeah, someone mentioned it," Dickins said quietly while a nerve jumped in his clenched jaw. "Jackasses."

"Since the creation of WASA, repeated administrations have derided the program and anyone associated with it," Roach continued. "To get to the gist of the matter, the evidence that could prove that past politicians and officials knew all along that Cylons exist—despite the fact that we've been denying it for decades—is sitting in Groom Lake."

"Groom Lake?" Dickins asked. He let out a little breath of disbelief as he realized . . .

_"__Groom __. .__. __lay-kuh?__" _said Hummer, making heavy weather of the English. "What be . . ."

"Area 51," Grae supplied excitedly. "He's talking about Roswell. Aren't you, General?"

Roach nodded. From his rigid posture and stony face, it was plain what this admission was costing the Chief of Staff. "I am."

"Holy crap," Grae said in surprise, "who slapped you in the face with the sudden epiphany, Roach?"

Roach scowled at him.

"What do you want from us _this_ time?" Dickins asked, distrust etched into his features. He put a hand on Hummer's, gently pushing the barrel of the weapon down to the floor as the general drew even with them.

"I can answer that," Grae inserted, joining them. "Over thirty years ago, WASA was given access to classified information, technology and evidence that aliens had actually landed on Earth back in 1947. It accelerated our space program to where it is today."

"What?" Roach asked in surprise. A moment later, he held out an open hand for Hummer's weapon. After a nod from Dickins, the man slowly turned it over.

"Somehow, I didn't think you knew that, General. So we've known since 2025 that it was a cover up," Ryan replied. "Anyhow, the Cylon ship that crashed on the moon a couple months ago is virtually identical to the Roswell ship. If we can retrieve data from the Cylon flight recorder or possibly even one of the pilots, we could find out what actually happened back in 1947. How that ship came to be on Earth over a hundred years before the next one appeared. President Gibson would _have_ to listen to us."

"Cylon?" asked Hummer, looking from one man to the other. "Raider Earth? Centurions?"

"Seems so, Hummer," said Dickins. "Well?" he asked of one and all.

"This is critical, Captain," Roach told Dickins. "Right now our Director of National Intelligence and Secretary of Defence have convinced the President to consider the possibility that these Cylons are actually our _allies_, and that this Colonial Warrior, Captain Starbucks, is some kind of insurgent from another galaxy sent to stir the pot."

"Starbuck?" Dickins head snapped up. "_Starbuck_'s here? How the bloody hell . . .?" He chewed his lip, before whispering below his breath. "_Mark?_ You actually found a way back. You old bugger . . ."

"Starbuck . . ." Hummer murmured hopefully, nodding.

"You know him," Roach said.

"I owe that kid my life," Dickins swore, his body suddenly tense again. "We all do."

"Starbuck great warrior!" stated Hummer.

"Well, at this point he's slated for execution in Kazakhstan as a gesture of our allegiance to the Cylon Alliance," the US Air Force Chief of Staff informed them.

"_What_?" scoffed Dickins.

"Yes. The intel is fresh. And solid."

"We can't let that happen, General," Dickins averred.

"And we won't," Roach promised him. "Bradshaw, I want a plane ready. Top priority. I'm taking these men to Groom Lake."

"Yes, sir."

"Flight crew, sir?"

"I'll be flying her myself, Bradshaw. With an F-22 Escort."

"Yes, sir." Bradshaw saluted and turned to go.

"One more thing, General," Dickins said.

"What's that, Captain?" said Roach, turning back to face the astronaut.

"This."

Roach didn't even see it coming. Quicker than a striking King Cobra, Dickins punched the four-star general in the face. The Chief of Staff reeled on his feet, recovering his balance as he wiped away a trickle of blood from his split lip. In an instant, Bradshaw was covering the old astronaut with his weapon again. Roach held up a hand, waving off the colonel, shaking his head as he snorted aloud. He turned back towards Dickins. The man was merely watching him, waiting for a reaction.

"Sir . . ." Bradshaw said.

"Go, Colonel," ordered Roach. The officer left to comply, although reluctantly.

"After all we've put you through," Roach said, looking at the streak of blood on his fingers and then back to Dickins, "I'll let you have that one, Captain. But I'll warn you . . . don't do it again."

Dickins nodded at the officer with a grudging respect. "Then don't give me cause to, General. Do we have an understanding?"

"I believe we do."

xxxxx

It was the _second_ time that Lu had come across a small patrol of Cylon Raiders on her scanner as she backtracked towards the _Endeavour_, and the second time that her heart had sunk into her boots when her scanner hadn't identified them as being Colonial Hybrids. The increased range on the Wraith's scanners gave every indication that the increasing numbers of Cylon forces were rendezvousing, however, at least she could rest a _little_ easier knowing that her own position exceeded the Raider's more limited scanners and that with the technologically advanced ECM on the Espridian recon ship, they probably wouldn't be able to detect her anyhow. The Earthlings certainly hadn't. Hopefully, she could make it within communications range of the _Endeavour_ in time to get some much-needed backup. This "simple recon mission" had turned out to be anything but, and had blown itself all out of proportion . . . but wasn't that what _usually_ happened when her and Starbuck flew together?

Meanwhile, where was the Cylon Base Ship that these fighters had launched from? Something that size tended to stand out. And had the _Endeavour_ detected it yet, or vice versa? Was she going to end up in the middle of a battle as she sped across the star system trying to get help? Did the _Endeavour_ with its smaller contingent of available fighters stand a chance against an unknown force of Cylon Raiders? It was a classic case of what her husband referred to as thinking too much . . .

_Beep._

Her heart leapt into her throat as this time it appeared that an entire squadron of Raiders was heading this way. Full combat strength. However, they weren't on the same bearing as the others and—she checked her scanner again—her warbook was reading them as Hybrids! She whooped in joy, even knowing it would be another twenty to thirty centons before they'd be in communications range.

At least now Earth would have a chance.

xxxxx

It did not compute.

According to an internal chronometer, four point four centars had passed since their patrol had failed to capture the defenceless Earth vessel and were attacked by an unidentified fighter. These were centars that the centurion couldn't account for. One moment they were in combat, the next the Raider and other two centurions were deactivated in space, with no visual of the enemy or the rest of the patrol. Both Raiders were missing in action. It had taken ten point eight centons for an internal diagnostic to be completed, during which time the pilot and flight leader had also reinitialised their deactivated systems. Somehow the primitive humans had defeated the Cylon patrol.

It did not compute.

Five centons later all systems in the Raider were reported as nominal. There were no indications of their fellow Raiders on their scanners, nor any sign of the primitive Earth ship or the unidentified fighter. However, they did detect a signal from the surface that appeared to be a beacon. It was on a different frequency from other signals they were picking up. Centons later, telemetry indicated the other two Raiders had burnt up on uncontrolled atmospheric entry. A brief scan below them, at a distance of barely a thousand maxims, showed a planet teeming with human life.

"Set-new-course. Follow-the-aberrant-signal."

"By-your-command."

xxxxx

Ah, the Goddess of Luck, she was fickle. Point of fact, she was getting downright _nasty._ She had a way of tricking a guy into thinking that his fortunes had changed, only to moments later leave him standing still with the butt of a weapon pressed into his forehead, threatening to blow his brains out.

"Could we, uh . . . talk about this?" Starbuck asked, shifting the load over his shoulder as the female officer groaned, apparently regaining consciousness. Behind the threat of the weapon was a military man who comparatively made an angry Colonel Tigh look like an Aerian water nymph. Not that he'd actually ever met an Aerian water . . .

"Let us start with what you did to Colonel Katko," the officer replied, frowning deeply as another soldier stepped forward, easing the woman to the floor gently. From the way he began examining the woman, Starbuck surmised he must be a med tech of some sort.

Starbuck raised his hands, silently willing Katko to wake up. Against his will, a hacking cough burst out of him, and he instinctively wrapped an arm around his chest to splint it from a fiery fury. The Russians—with the sole exception of the officer holding his weapon—stepped two paces back. It seemed that his best defence at the moment was his virus. "_I _didn't do this. Borodin and Luci . . . the Cylon did."

"And where_ is _Director Borodin?" the officer demanded, waving his weapon threateningly until Starbuck raised his hands again.

"Well . . . in the cell . . . uh, unconscious." Starbuck glanced at Baltar who actually shrugged. Apparently, undoing restraints was the extent of any supernatural abilities that this recently evolved Being of Light possessed, or at least was willing to flex. "Colonel General Surkov?" the Colonial Warrior asked anyway. Unfortunately, being discovered carrying the limp body of this officer's subordinate officer probably wasn't the best way to make his acquaintance. "I'm Captain Starbuck of the Colonial ship _Endeavour_."

"Senior Praporshchik Lobov . . .!" the officer snapped over his shoulder, the rest of the words unintelligible. Two men behind him headed down the corridor towards the containment cell. The officer's lips seemed to twitch in what either could be satisfaction or anger as he looked back at Starbuck . . . it was difficult to tell at this point.

"The President, Starbuck," Baltar reminded him. "Tell him his president is in danger."

"And _I'm_ not?" Starbuck stated the obvious, reverting to his native tongue as the butt of the weapon regained its continuous pressure on his skull.

"Eh?" the Russian officer shook his head in confusion, obviously not understanding.

"Starbuck!" Baltar insisted. "This isn't about you!"

Which defied logic, somehow. After all, he couldn't do much to help Earth if he was dead. "I can't explain right now, Colonel General, but your president is in mortal danger," Starbuck warned the Russian. "There's a plot against his life."

The pressure of the gun receded ever so slightly as the man pulled back his pistol a few centimetrons. "How do you know this?" Surkov demanded.

"Intelligence," Starbuck replied, opting to not mention the guardian weevil standing to his right just now. "The same way we knew the Cylons were on their way to destroy Earth. It's the reason I'm here, for Sagan's sake! To save you all! To _help_!"

Surkov looked at him suspiciously, clearly weighing the incriminating circumstances against the critical information. He would either believe Starbuck . . . or pull the trigger. The heavy sound of footfalls drew their attention while on the floor behind them the med tech was helping Colonel Katko sit up. The two soldiers checking out Borodin had returned. More unintelligible words and information were exchanged between soldiers and commanding officer, before Surkov looked Starbuck up and down, snorting aloud.

"How does a restrained, beaten and obviously sick man overcome the Director of the GRU?" Surkov asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Hold your tongue, Starbuck," Baltar warned him, the sound somehow reverberating around the warrior's head. "Now is not the time for one of your patented braggart answers."

"Let's just say, it was one of the high points of my day," Starbuck replied, as Baltar made to smack him in the back of the head. The weevil's hand passed right through him. "Borodin's obviously not a _warrior_, Colonel General."

Surkov nodded, grunting softly. "A cloak and dagger knight."

"It matters not, Colonel General," Colonel Katko stressed, struggling to regain her feet. She looked pale, but determined as she brushed off any offer of assistance.

"Are you okay, Colonel?" Starbuck asked her.

"Yes." She nodded briefly, a bemused smile fleetingly resting on her lips as she gazed at the Colonial searchingly. "Despite being tasered by the Main Directorate of Intelligence." She drew herself erect beside Surkov. "The GRU are working _against_ us, Colonel General. Not _with_ us. Borodin spoke of executing Captain Starbuck, yet everything I learned from him leads me to believe that he is our ally."

Surkov studied her for a long moment, then looked to Starbuck and back to Katko. At last, he nodded, lowering his weapon and holstering it. He gestured to his men to stand down and look squarely at the warrior. "I am Colonel General Surkov, Russian Air Force Commander-in-Chief. Come with me, Captain, and tell me all you know."

"Well, _that_ shouldn't take long," Baltar drawled.


	34. Chapter Ten: Part One

Chapter Ten

Surkov burst into the Baikonur Control Centre, barking rapidly into his sat-phone, while keeping one hand almost possessively on the arm of a man whom Jess assumed _had_ to be Starbuck. The Colonial Warrior was dressed in a dishevelled isolation suit, the top half undone and his feet conspicuously bare. His dark blond hair, surprisingly long for an officer, was damp and his face was flushed. He was looking around with curiosity, craning his neck to see some of the control stations manned by WASA staff and Russian military alike. Besides the ruddiness to his complexion, she also noticed some discoloration which looked like bruising. Despite her warnings to fully cooperate with his captors, he had obviously been manhandled during decontamination.

He caught her eye, perhaps sensing her scrutiny. His eyes opened wide in apparent surprise, as if he recognized her. Then he smiled widely, brushing off Surkov's grip as easily as if the colonel general was a child, and strode towards her. The smile was infectious, and she felt herself responding in kind as she stuck out her hand in greeting.

"Jess Dayton," she said. "You're obviously Starbuck."

"Sweet lady, Mark Dayton is like another father to me. I'm _not_ going to shake your hand!" he grinned, spontaneously wrapping his arms around her and picking her up, whooping in joy before swinging her around in a circle. He laughed aloud as he set her down again, his hands resting on her slender waist. "Sagan's sake, I can't wait to get you two together!"

It was the closest link she'd had to Mark Dayton since kissing him goodbye forty-four years earlier. Starbuck's exuberance was clearly born from an honest-to-goodness excitement of what this would mean to his friend, her father. It was like a breath of fresh air in an environment that generally stunk, surrounded as she was by Russian officers intruding in her Control Centre. Her resulting elation was indescribable as he beamed at her, his blue eyes sparkling with unadulterated happiness for a friend. A giggle escaped her and she smothered it with a hand, horrified that "giggle" and "Jess Dayton, Director of WASA" could be in any way connected. Still, she couldn't help grinning inanely back at the spaceman.

"How on Earth did you recognize me?" she asked, taking a deep breath, lightly resting her hands on his arms.

"Well . . ."

A harsh cough erupted from him and he whirled away from her. His lithe frame actually shook with the intensity of the attack. Starbuck wrapped a hand around one side of his chest, favouring his ribs. A moment later, he was catching his breath and shaking it off as if it was of no consequence. He turned back to her. "Sorry. Something I picked up in decon. I got so clean, something decided to take up housekeeping." He wiped a sleeve across his face, mopping up a fine sheen of sweat. He really didn't look well. "Anyhow, a while back I saw a holo-vid you did when you were the Executive Director for WASA. It was your message to us about the Guardians and how Earth needed help," he clarified. "It's a long story, and I'm guessing we don't have time for it right now." He glanced back at Surkov who was finally putting away his phone. "Besides, your father should be the one to tell it to you. Jess, I know this is a strange question, but how long have I been here? I've sort of lost track of time."

"Roughly five hours. It's just after midnight, Kazakhstan time. July 3rd."

He frowned. "Any chance I could get my chrono back? My gear?"

"Chrono? Time piece?"

"Yeah. Maybe my clothes too," he looked down at his bare feet, "my boots . . ."

"I'll see what I can do," she replied, without much hope. "But I suspect they burned them."

"We were in time, Captain," Surkov told the warrior, interrupting without finesse. "I owe you my gratitude."

"For what?" Jess asked.

"We curtailed an assassination attempt on President Kuzmin," Surkov told her. "I am still uncertain how Captain Starbuck knew the details, but the GRU agents he identified were just arrested, literally within metres of their target." He spared a brief look at Starbuck. "I will beat it out of him later."

Starbuck raised an eyebrow at the man, clearly unsure how to interpret that.

Surkov chuckled, swatting the warrior heartily in the arm, before returning his attention to Jess. "Borodin was planning a coupe, Jessica. He is already in custody, as is the Cylon which appears to have its circuitry blown." He nodded at Starbuck in apparent deference this time, a marginal improvement on threatening to beat him, and a sure sign the two would be drinking vodka in the not so distant future. "President Kuzmin is contacting the American president to discuss raising the level of defence readiness worldwide. The Americans are taking a long time, as you say, to saddle up."

"We may take a long time to saddle up, but once we're up, we go like stink," Jess replied, throwing an old Russian proverb back at him.

Surkov smiled.

"Orlov!" Sadowski called as he looked over his console. "The last Cylon fighter . . . we just picked it up on our satellite. It's entering our atmosphere!"

xxxxx

Grae hadn't seriously thought of bullying as a positive character trait until now. It had usually backfired as a kid, more often than not leaving him with a bloody nose or split lip for his efforts, thus he'd fallen back on the loud-mouthed bravado with a touch of wry wit to get him through life. It was, therefore, a perverse pleasure to see General Roach muscle his way into Area 51, the four-star general bullying the soldiers stationed there and threatening to bust them down so far that they'd need a F-22 to get them back up. In the end they had achieved the impossible . . . or certainly the improbable. Finally, one of the most controversial and well kept secrets of the twentieth century was about to be busted open.

He hoped.

"Area 51" sat on a sprawling, long-dried lake bed in the Nevada desert with many parts of it going deep underground. The designation dated back to the 1950s, when the old Atomic Energy Commission maps had the military ranges in the region. This was where early nuclear weapons had been designed and tested, and then broken up into "Areas", "Area 1", "Area 2" and so forth. While those maps, along with the AEC, were long defunct, somehow the designation had clung to this place.

Much like the mystery and controversy.

Once inside, they had been driven into a hangar and then escorted through a set of massive steel blast doors, not unlike those at Cheyenne Mountain. Huge elevators took them down, level after level, deeper into areas so secret, scarcely a handful of people on the whole planet knew what they actually contained. After checking in with yet another security post, the party went down a long tunnel and up to another set of sealed doors. There had been another delay as it became apparent that nobody had the access code to get them past the massive doors that looked as though they could withstand a nuclear attack . . . but not that of General Roach. The four-star general disappeared with the base commander and Colonel Bradshaw, leaving the rest of them in the company of scowling soldiers.

Thirty minutes later the brass reappeared, the attending guards were ordered to wait down the corridor, and the massive doors were opened. It was another hangar, but somewhat smaller than the rest they had seen. The dust hung thickly in the cold, stale air. Truthfully, it looked more like a crypt than a storage area. On a platform at the far end, surrounded by a catwalk and under racks of work lights, sat the object of so much speculation. Both Hummer and Dickins gasped slightly. What lay before them was unquestionably Cylon in origin. A state-of-the-art, frontline fighter craft.

Or, what was left of it.

As they drew closer, they could see that the front canopy was buckled inwards and torn open, as if it had slammed hard into something. One engine pod was missing, the other badly banged up. One wing was bent, the laser gun missing, and what they could see of the underside was gouged and scraped. Obviously, the ship had taken massive damage coming in. That it still remained in one piece was a semi-miracle. On another platform nearby sat the detached engine, surrounded by lights and instruments. On a third rested the flight crew. All of them were covered in a thick layer of dust. It had been a _long_ time since anyone had entered the hangar.

"It's a Cylon Raider," Hummer announced after only a few moments of examining the wreckage in the enormous underground hangar. Somehow, Colonel Bradshaw had had the presence of mind to get his hands on the translator device that Dickins called a "languatron". The electronic marvel had been taken off Dickins and Hummer when they had first landed on US soil. In hindsight, it might have saved a lot of frustration if scientists hadn't taken it apart to see how it worked, only to end up breaking it. However, it hadn't taken long for Hummer to get it functioning again, so now they could actually communicate with the native Colonial.

"The same class of Raiders that the Colonials are currently up against," Dickins further translated the translation. "Kinda weird, considering this bird crashed over a hundred years ago."

"They were obviously flying something different then," Roach clarified. A hundred years was a long time to not update your fighter craft. Any government administration had to be a special kind of stupid to let that happen.

"Yes, they were flying an earlier model, and there have been quite a few technological upgrades since then," Dickins nodded. "Range and weaponry."

"Unreal. It was all true," Grae Ryan murmured to General Roach as he stood in absolute astonishment, gaping at the remains of a Cylon Raider and its crew of three Cylons laid out on a long bench, all of them identical to those pulled out of the wreckage of the Raider they had found on the moon. Hummer had moved to examine the damaged centurions, peering into their crania and tracing circuit lines with his finger. One was ripped open, seemingly impaled by something, another badly dented, doubtless by the force of the crash. The third was scorched and torn, as if by an explosion.

"These centurions are the same model as Baltar's pilots," announced Hummer, to Dickins. "Identical to ones we have aboard the _Galactica_. They cannot be over a century old!"

"But they are, at least here on Earth," muttered Ryan, turning in a circle to take in the hangar. "Hell, didn't I see this in _Indiana Jones_?"

"Indiana Jones?" Roach asked, shaking his head slowly.

"Yeah. The old adventure series."

"Never saw it."

"You don't like old movies, General?"

"Worthwhile ones. In fact, I have quite a collection."

"Like?"

"_How to Strangle an Astronaut Who Won't Shut His Festering Gob_," Roach replied. "That's one of my favourites."

"Never saw that one," Ryan replied with a smirk.

"I'm guessing you don't want to star in it either," Roach returned, starting to look through equipment that had been dismantled. "What are we looking for, Ryan?"

"You look for any documentation that actually records what they've concluded. The scientists who went through this, I mean. We'll look for the electronic data to back it up. Essentially, we're looking for the equivalent of a black box. A flight data recorder, like what we have in our fighters or civilian airliners carry," he explained, for Hummer's benefit. The Colonial nodded. "Something that tells the story of how they crashed and how they got here."

"I thought that all we needed was enough physical evidence to prove that someone was covering up the existence of known Cylons, even after WASA warned them of an impending threat," Colonel Bradshaw said, waving a hand around at the abundance of said evidence.

"And we _have_ that," Grae nodded. "But I still want to know what a lone Cylon Raider of a series that shouldn't have even existed in 1947 is doing here, along with her flight crew. And why this was kept classified so long. On whose orders."

"Follow the trail to who was behind this and see if there is a link between then and now," Roach nodded.

"Exactly."

"Then let's get to work."

"Good idea, sir. Let's do that."

xxxxx

Mark Dayton felt—as the saying went—small and insignificant, standing among enormous megaliths and tumbled columns while gazing up at a pyramid that would have stretched towards the heavens, if it hadn't been buried beneath so much rock and sand that it had laid forgotten for millennia under a partially fractured condensed tylinium dome. Therefore, it was a strange sensation to then enter the comparatively claustrophobic passageways of the pyramid, especially with everybody in both parties in tow.

According to Curtis, the members of the station who were suffering from radiation sickness were inside the pyramid. Cassie was eager to do whatever she could, but had already voiced her concerns that it wouldn't be much while the astronauts were still in their spacesuits. It was quickly clarified that within the pyramid was a functional airlock and a sustainable environment. It had become their refuge when their reactor failed.

The acting commander of Barstow Station had also given them a quick rundown of the events surrounding the reactor breach, as he understood them. Curtis seemed to have no idea that sabotage was behind the deaths of so many of their people. For the moment, it didn't make much sense to share the intelligence, especially when they were on a shared frequency. A brief look from Apollo told Dayton that his executive officer agreed. Besides, for all Dayton knew the saboteur could be dead. In the meantime, the Colonial Warriors would remain alert, keeping in mind that one of the Earthmen ten feet in front of them could be a murderous traitor.

"Cozy," Baker murmured as a series of newly erected lights lit their way through the shadows. "Where's Brendan Fraser when you really need him?"

"_Mummy_," whimpered Ryan.

"Bury it, you two," added Dayton.

"Sorry, Chief. Didn't mean to get wrapped up in the moment," said Ryan, deadpan.

"One day I hope to understand what you Earthmen are talking about without asking for the inevitable explanation," Malus said.

"As do I," Apollo added, shining his illuminator all around him, looking for any signs of danger. Briefly, Baltar's words in a far-away crypt on Kobol came back to him: _H__alf-drunken star voyagers that came back to die, here? We could all die here! _"Commander Curtis, I was in the pyramid of the Ninth Lord of Kobol." Briefly, he explained about the Lords of Kobol and their use of pyramids as monumental tombs, drawing yet another parallel between Kobollian and Earth ancient history. "There was a warning etched into the outer stone, as well as concealed traps that when tripped had obviously killed more than one grave robber over the yahrens."

"Really?" Doctor Mufti replied. "Nothing quite so dramatic here, I'm afraid. The pyramid's opening was only sealed with rubble and once we cleared that away it was simple to penetrate. Curiously, booby traps within ancient pyramids have more substance in fiction than fact in Earth history. Just think about it, gentlemen. How long would a tautly strung bow shooting poisonous darts last before the bow string deteriorated and broke under all that tension? Then there's the Dirt Theory. Thousands of years of dirt and dust has a way of gumming up machinery that might trip these complex yet entertaining booby traps that Hollywood is so fond of. Just bury your car in the sand for a month, then unearth it and try and start it up again."

"Well, that cinches it. There's at least _one_ Kobollian descendent in Hollywood," joked Baker.

"Really, Dr. Mufti?" Ryan asked. "You mean we're not in any danger of enormous stone balls chasing us down, threatening to squash us?" He perked up visibly.

"Or an infestation of murderous Martian scarabs," added Dayton as he paused to shine his illuminator over hieroglyphics on the walls. They looked almost as fresh as the day they had been carved. They indeed appeared to be in the language of the Egyptians, yet he was certainly no expert and wished that his father could be there to confirm his assumption. Man, his father would go ballistic if he could see all this . . . but then his father had to be dead by now.

"Can you read this?" asked Curtis, noticing Dayton's attention to a line of script along one wall.

"I wish. My father was an Egyptologist, Commander, and certainly I recognize a few characters, probably through osmosis, but mostly it's Greek to me."

"I actually haven't seen this one until now. I confess, I've concentrated more of my energies on the inner chamber. Now, let's see . . . it appears to be a religious text," Mufti told them, studying it further.

_"Well, thank God for that," Baker smiled. _

_ "_In a scientific base?" asked Ryan.

"Why do you conclude this is a scientific base, Dr. Ryan?" Curtis asked.

"Mostly from all the technology it took to build it and keep it running," Ryan returned.

"Yet remember, the Kobollians _were_ a devout people, Paddy," Dayton said.

"True enough," Ryan conceded, nodding.

"_Nuk semiu-a em bah nebu rekh khert khat-senina aa er semeter maat__," Mufti intoned._

"Which means?" asked Dietra.

"Roughly rendered it translates to: 'I offer up prayers in the presence of the Lords, knowing what concerneth their persons. I have approa . . .no, _come_ advancing to make a stat . . .uh, _declaration_ of right and truth.'"

"_Lords_?" echoed Jolly. "The Lords of Kobol?"

"Certainly worth considering. What really is compelling here is that the wording is suspiciously like writings in the _Amduat_. From _The Book of the Dead_."

"Book of the Dead?" Apollo asked.

"A collection of ancient Egyptian funerary hymns, magic formulae, litanies, incantations, prayers and words of power believed to aid the dead in the crossing to the next life." Mufti let out a brief sniff, running a hand over the symbols. "Fascinating."

"What?" Dayton asked.

"I also found hieroglyphics inside that reveal a remarkable correlation to other passages in the Book of the Dead."

"Oh?"

Mufti nodded his head enthusiastically. "Yes, listen carefully, I have them memorized. _Lord_, _I will not interfere with divine balance. Lord_, _I will stop not a god when he comes forth. Lord_, _I do not offend the god who is at the helm. Lord_, _I do not harm my kinsmen. Lord_, _I do not kill. Lord_, _I am not an adulterer. Lord_, _I do not steal. Lord_,_ I do not tell untruths. Lord_, _I do not wrong others_."

"Sagan sakes," Apollo said. "Those passages are almost identical to those in the Book of the Word."

"_And_ very similar to those in the Bible," Dayton added. "The Ten Commandments."

"Nine," Baker amended.

"Huh?"

"Dr. Mufti only mentioned nine, Mark. Correlated with my abridged version from our Holy Bible, _Have no other gods before me, Make no idols, Do not misuse the name of God, Honour your mother and father, Do not kill, Do not commit adultery, Do not steal, Do not lie, Do not covet another's property_."

"Yes, _Keep the Sabbath Holy_ is not there. You see, the Egyptians had no Sabbath," Dr. Mufti explained.

"What's a Sabbath?" Dietra asked.

"Evidently, neither did the Kobollians," Dayton smiled. "It's a day of the week that is observed as a day of rest and worship."

"So . . . are you insinuating the Ten Commandments came from Kobol, Doctor?" Ryan asked. "Not Mt. Sinai?"

"Well, as I said before, I thought it was Niribu, not Kobol, but that theory is paling by the minute. It's certainly a compelling hypothesis," Mufti replied.

"So . . . Moses went up Mt. Sinai where he was met by a Kobollian spaceship and given nine commandments," Baker said. "And he was so tired by the time he got back down, he added a day of rest."

"I like it," Ryan nodded.

"Yeah? Well, I _don't_," Dayton said. "It could be things happened just like the Bible said. Only God _also_ spread His word to the ancient Kobollians."

"Thirty-five hundred years earlier," Ryan replied. "Guess he wanted to test run the commandments for a while, see how things went."

"God only knows," Baker replied, deadpan.

"Can we move this along?" inserted Cassie. "There are sick people to treat."

"She's right," said Dayton. "School's out. Let's scratch gravel."

"And we can scratch it with confidence, knowing there are no booby traps!" added Baker.

Mufti chuckled as they resumed their journey. "I believe the ancients thought the size of the stones that sealed the pyramids would be enough to thwart any attempt at intrusion, which of course proved to be erroneous. However, there are also several theories that it was the workers and the priests left to guard our pyramids that were the very men that later robbed them. Many an archaeologist has been disappointed to find that on discovery of an ancient site that tomb robbers long before beat them to what treasures and artefacts lay inside."

"And in this case?" Dayton asked, eager for information. For a moment, he felt like a kid again, listening to one of his father's stories about buried treasures and secret crypts. "I mean Mars isn't exactly a vacation Mecca for the _Worshipful Brotherhood of Tomb Robbers and Body Snatchers_. Is there a tomb in there, Doctor Mufti? And if so, had it been penetrated when you found it?"

"I believe this settlement was destroyed before the pyramid was properly sealed or even completed. Also, it doesn't appear as though it was actually a _tomb_, Commander Dayton. Thus far, we have found no evidence of a sarcophagus or similar objects which we generally associate with Earth pyramids."

"I remember the conclusion that Egyptian pyramids were built solely as tombs for the pharaohs was in contention back in our day," Ryan said.

"Largely conjecture originating from a psychic," Curtis replied. "Back in 1934 Edgar Cayce claimed that the ancient Egyptians were the descendants of a previous civilization who constructed the Great Pyramid and the Sphinx as 'Halls of Records' for the purpose of imparting scientific knowledge to future generations. There were generations of New Age writers that jumped on his bandwagon, even going so far as to claim the pyramids were stargates."

"Oh," replied Ryan with a smile as half of them entered an inner chamber. A small airlock had been fitted to the entrance. Once inside they waited until they were treated to a pressurized atmosphere, while trying to contain their excitement about what lay on the other side. "Sounds like you think the psychic is a psycho."

"Well said, Dr. Ryan, although once again one does have to wonder. There seems to be _some_ truth in what Cayce hypothesized," Mufti laughed. "Back to the present, there _is_ a recurring symbol that has been etched into the stone. Curiously, it is also well-known in Earth history. I'll show you rather than try to explain it."

"We look forward to it."

xxxxx

"And that was President Gibson, live from the White House, once again reassuring the citizens of the United States, and indeed the whole world, that world leaders have things well in hand. Just in, not only have British and French military officials reported that their armed forces are standing by, but Director Dayton of the Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency has informed us that recently developed WASA satellite technology, tested successfully only yesterday over the Atlantic Ocean, will be also be standing by in a state of readiness in the interests of worldwide security. Meanwhile, satellite imagery is negative for Cylons as Earth waits for further contact from our Colonial brethren. Over to you, Jill . . ."

"Did you hear the latest from the media? They're bloody threatening us!" Chairman Whatley told Director Mason over a secure line. "That was our Lightning they dropped in the drink, and they're treating it like a bloody test run!"

"Never mind that," replied Mason, somewhat sharply. "Have General Metencourt send in his troops. Their satellite weapons can't do anything against a ground assault, and they sure as hell didn't see it coming at Baikonur. We have to stop WASA. We have to assume control of the Guiana Space Centre and their satellite grid before the Cylons arrive."

"You mean _take_ control. Consider it done," Whatley returned.

"Speaking of Baikonur, I can't get Borodin. He's unavailable, even on his urgent line."

"Concern yourself with President Gibson, and leave Russia to the Russians."

"General Roach is becoming a problem. He's freed Richard Dickins. Word has it they're at Area 51."

Whatley scoffed. "Erase him."

"Have you heard from Samael Asar?"

"No."

"But . . ."

"All of his predictions have come true to date. He'll be here when we need him."

An emergent tone sounded on the director's sat-phone. "I have to go, Whatley."

"So do I!"


	35. Chapter Ten: Part Two

Things seldom went as expected, at least in his case. Starbuck had disabled three Cylon Raiders with the Dynamo rigged onto his Wraith when he had interrupted an attack on the defenceless Earth shuttle, _Venture_. At that time he had actually thought the fighters would either burn up in the atmosphere or he would soon be contacting the _Endeavour_ and would have reinforcements to finish them off. Meanwhile, if his calculations were right, they only had another forty-eight centars until the Clavis self-initiated, providing Malus hadn't fixed that problem. _Best-laid schemes of warriors and rogues, Bucko_ . . .

"Is it burning up?" Jess asked expectantly.

"No, Director. The last one appears to be under power and on a course . . ."

"On _course_?" Starbuck said, suddenly all business. "_Last _Cylon? What's the status of the other two?" He moved towards the instruments, taking a moment to decipher them. While the technology was different, the basic information was the same.

"Two burned up on atmospheric entry, one is left," Jess quickly updated him, pointing to a pair of tracks on the scope, marking the final flame-out of the two Raiders.

"Where?" Surkov demanded. "Where is it?" He turned to Katko. "Colonel! Defence Readiness Condition to maximum! Notify Taraz and Aktobe Bases! Prepare surface-to-air missiles!" He launched into a diatribe of his native language, issuing orders as the colonel in turn began barking orders at subordinates in the Control Centre.

"Get me some decent real-time telemetry!" Orlov ordered, motioning at the massive screens at the front of the room. "We didn't put them up there to hide the ugly wallpaper, people!"

"Yes, sir."

A moment later they could all see the blip on the navigation board over Kazakhstan. Moving damned fast.

"It's here. How the hell did it follow us?" Jess asked.

Starbuck frowned, relieved that they had defences in place that could potentially take care of the threat. "Ion trails. Contrails." He sniffed humourlessly, as the real reason dawned on him. "The beacon on my Wraith."

"Beacon on your Wraith?" Jess echoed in horror. "Why didn't you disable it?"

"Kind of figured on doing that after contacting my base ship and shaking a few hands." He shrugged, pointedly palpating a lump on the back of his head. "It didn't quite work out that way."

"Tell me about it," she agreed.

"Bearing 227.6 degrees southwest, Flight Director. Air speed, seven hundred and sixteen miles per hour. Altitude, 40 000 feet."

"This Cylon fighter, is it armed with long-range missiles?" Surkov asked, arms crossed.

"No missiles," Starbuck shook his head. "Standard armament, two laser torpedoes pulsars. With a four point eight centimetron reinforced tylinium armour hull, with a thousand watton deflection point-diverter grid. Full 360 scan field."

"What does that make it? A flying tank?" muttered Jess.

"Tank?" Starbuck asked, the languaphone rendering it as a keg in space. "What's a tank?"

"What's a centimetron? What's tylinium?" Jess countered. The translation matrix wasn't exactly perfect.

"There's a plane up there!" Sadowski reported. "Commercial airliner at 35 000 feet!" He pointed to the blip indicating the craft in question for the rest. "The Cylon is moving to intercept!"

"Can you warn them?" shouted Jess.

"The enemy is practically on top of it! Intercept in thirty seconds!"

"Colonel General, if we fire surface-to-air missiles, they'll hit the airliner!" Katko exclaimed.

"As with the new ASAT, Dayton," Orlov told his director. "It would knock out the airliner's navigation."

"What are our airborne assets at the moment?" asked Surkov. He cursed acidly. Nothing airborne was anywhere near to being in range to intercept. Nonetheless, he ordered a scramble from the closest bases.

"Unarmed airliner," snorted Katko, giving Jess a quick glance. "How you say, sitting turkey."

"Duck," Jess said.

"Now might be a good time for celestial intervention, Baltar," Starbuck said through gritted teeth, careful to switch back to Colonial Standard. Jess was looking at him in concern. "You had no qualms about breaking rules when you had both feet on the ground, why change now?"

"Amusing, yet redundant," the other replied, looking more than a little concerned himself.

"C'mon, Baltar, I'd bet a sectons pay that Ama would zap them into another dimension where Cylons are used as personal portable trash compacters."

"Perhaps."

"Gotta be a drag to rise from Traitor of Mankind to celestial hack, only to find you had more power as a human. Are you sure I can't trade you in on someone more useful? You could go polish the lights on the _Ship Of_. It's looking a bit lacklustre from where I'm standing."

"You can't bait me, Starbuck. I'm impervious to your taunts."

"I'm just warming up," he returned.

"Starbuck! _Speak English_! What are you saying?" Jess shouted, grabbing him by the jumpsuit and coming nose to nose with him. She obviously thought he was cracking up.

And she wasn't far off. In his helplessness and frustration he had gone from Colonial Warrior to angel baiter, first class. Apollo would strip and module him if he knew. He took a deep breath, focussing his attention on her.

"Kobollian prayer," he adlibbed by way of explanation.

"_Kobollian_ . . . Can't you _do_ anything?" she asked, desperation in her tone.

"There's not enough time, Jess. If I could get up there in the Wraith . . . then maybe . . . but . . ." He fanned his hands wide, helplessly. "Frack, I wouldn't even make it to the runway . . ."

"It's a JAXA Supersonic Transport! There are three hundred civilians aboard!" Orlov cried. "A flight from Tokyo to London!"

"Frackin' Hades hole, Baltar!" Starbuck exploded. "Do _something_!"

"Is this 'Baltar'. . . a . . . a Kobollian deity?"

Starbuck closed his eyes, groaning.

xxxxx

It seemed to be taking hours. They had found the "black box" from the Cylon fighter, all right. They had found it in a million pieces, labelled and filed away in boxes and totally beyond telling anything useful about how a relatively new Cylon fighter and its crew could have possibly crash landed on Earth over a hundred years ago. To his credit, however, that hadn't dissuaded the Colonial technician. Now out of detainment and given a purpose, he had transformed into a new man. Dickins had mentioned that they built them tough in the colonies and after a thousand years of war, their people had a way of brushing aside the traumatic to give their full attention to the crucial. Given a bench and a set of tools, Hummer soon had the flight recorder reassembled, though power was still a problem. After a few frustrating centons, he had gone to the actual Cylons, or at least the one that had the most pieces intact. Externally, it looked like it had taken heavy damage, the body severely scorched and torn. He ripped it apart, and after a minute or two, smiled in success. It seemed that each robot still had some kind of auxiliary power unit inside. After a few more minutes of fiddling the unit began to blink. Going back to one of the damaged centurions, looking for something inside that he was certain would still give him the necessary answers, Hummer at last extracted another electronic unit. It was about the size of a pack of cigarettes, with exposed leads on one end and a smooth metal case. Hummer somehow connected the extracted device to the flight data recorder and after a few words of Colonial-cuss, images began to form on a monitor screen. With some more adjustments, they cleared up.

"Well? What have we got?" Roach asked impatiently.

"We have it. Come take a look," Dickins replied as Hummer nodded enthusiastically.

"What is it?" demanded the general.

"Looks like the whole enchilada," said Dickins. "From the information Hummer retrieved from the Cylon's data banks, they were in a battle just before this happened. If I'm right, they were in the very battle with the Colonials that precipitated our own journey through a wormhole that brought me and Hummer to Earth in the _Endeavour_."

"And Lucifer and his Raider to the moon," Grae added, leafing through a stack of papers. Dickins started rifling through a set aside pile of photographs. "But the time difference . . . why did this ship arrive one hundred and eight years earlier?"

"Some kind of space-time distortion within the wormhole," Hummer suggested through the languatron as he made final adjustments to the equipment, jury-rigged to transmit what the Cylons had 'experienced'. "Our own knowledge of such things is unfortunately limited."

"So this is essentially going to be through the eyes of the Cylon?" asked Grae. "We see what he . . . uh, _it_ saw?"

"The optical array," replied Hummer with a nod, toggling a switch. "Yes. A Cylon's-eye-view. Fortunately, we had Cylons on board the _Galactica_ which we deactivated once they piloted Baltar back to the Fleet, so I'm somewhat familiar with them. Dr. Wilker was attempting to decipher their programming, but before he had a chance we were ordered to reassemble the Cylons and get them back in working condition, but that's another story. Anyhow, that's when we deduced that while in flight what each centurion experiences is downloaded into the data recorder, along with how the ship performed for later download when they return to their Base Ships. We surmised it's a secondary way of debriefing the pilots should that become necessary. Each one is stored in a separate file. Hopefully, I can access the right one . . . ah!"

They all crowded around.

On screen, the view through what had to be the Raider's viewport was chaotic, as it appeared that the Raider was whipped around, spinning out of control. All attempts by the crew to regain control were futile as the fighter was tossed about like a piece of debris in a tornado. Sparks flew from panels and smoke filled the cockpit. Just when it seemed that the harried craft could take no more . . .

Everything was still. The tumbling stopped and the whine of the engines dropped to a low vibration.

Flight Leader Vulca looked down at his instruments, then barked: "Report."

"By-your-command. We-have-exited-the-wormhole. Scanners-and-weapons-off-line."

"Contact-Commander-Lucifer."

"By-your-command," replied the other centurion. "There-is-no-response."

"Flight-Leader," said the other pilot. "We-are-approaching-a-planet."

Out the ports, almost directly in front of them, hung a huge blue planet swathed with clouds. Again, the crew attempted to scan the new world without success. Some form of residual radion was interfering with their systems.

"Enter-orbit and-attempt-to-effect-repairs," ordered Vulca.

"By-your-command."

Sluggishly, the Cylon fighter eased itself into an orbit around the planet, over three-hundred kilometrons high. After several centars of attempts, it was clear that neither Commander Lucifer nor the Base Ship were in the vicinity or would be answering either hails or their distress beacon.

"Scanners-operational," reported one of the pilots, Centurion Carnifex.

"Initiate-full-scan-of-the-planet," ordered Vulca.

"By-your-command."

"Status?" Vulca asked the other, Centurion Confector. Across the control board, several instruments were either blinking alarms or were dark.

"By-your-command. Weapons-off-line We-are-low-on-fuel. Less-than-twelve-percent-remaining. Structural-integrity-unknown."

"Flight-Leader," reported Carnifex, "the-planet-below-reads-positive-for-life-forms. Human."

"Human?"

"Confirmed, by-your-command. The-planet-is-fully-inhabited, but-is-not-recorded-in-our-databanks."

"Level?"

"Unknown. We-are-not-scanning-any-satellites-or-spacecraft. All-signals-from-the-surface-are-in-a-primitive-mode. Amplitude-modulation, gamma-band-transmissions."

"Any-indication-that-we-have-been-detected?" asked Vulca.

"No, by-your-command. No-indication-of-scanning-devices-at-this-altitude."

"We-must-inform-Imperious-Leader," said Vulca.

"We-are-out-of-communications-range-with-Cylon. We-cannot-inform-any…"

"By-your-command," interrupted Confector.

"Speak."

"Radion-detected-below."

"Radion?"

"Confirmed. Some-form-of-nuclear-fission-weapon-detected."

"Take-us-closer."

"By-your-command."

"We-will-not-have-enough-fuel-to-return-to-space," Carnifex informed him.

Vulca was inflexible. Humans had been found here. While the lack of any space traffic was puzzling, the presence of potential weapons below called for further investigation. The risks were not even to be entertained.

Slowly, the fighter banked and fired braking thrusters to slow for atmospheric entry. With scanners locked onto the mysterious source of radion, they came in over a vast ocean, making for a large continental landmass. Passing over a large city, Vulca was "tempted" to open fire, but this had become a mission of reconnaissance. The city and its human vermin could go on living for a little while longer. The Alliance would destroy them all in good time.

This planet's topography was wildly varied. The ship passed over cities, high mountains, green areas, and wide, seemingly lifeless deserts, all while remaining locked on target.

"By-your-command," said Carnifex. "Scanning-device-detected."

"Source?"

"Near-the-coordinates-of-the-nuclear-signature."

"Range-to-target?"

"Three-hundred-kilometrons and-closing."

"Full-scan. Arm-weapons."

"By-your-command."

"Atmospheric-electrical-disturbance-ahead," said Confector. Outside, a flash of lightning arced across the storm-filled sky.

"Circumnavigate."

"Attempting-to-"

The centurion was interrupted by a shot of sparks and smoke erupting from the panel in front of him.

"Report."

"We-have-been-struck-by-an-atmospheric-electrical-discharge. Alien-scanners-also-interfering-with-systems."

The ship rocked again as another bolt of lightning coruscated along the hull. The engines surged, then died. Several of the instruments went dark.

"Return-to-orbit," ordered Vulca.

The battered craft would not respond. As the sound of wind on the hull grew to a shriek, they could see the rain sluicing off the view ports and the ground coming up fast. Despite all attempts, the Raider was screaming towards the surface. Vulca watched the altimeter count down as they drew closer to the ground. A thousand metrons. Nine hundred. Eight. Seven. He reached over, activate the landing gear.

"We-are-about-to-crash," observed Confector

Anything beyond an observation was beyond Vulca as he looked ahead. There, ahead, was some sort of land form. The ship drew closer . . .

The screen went dark.

"Is that it?" Roach asked, his brows knitting in consternation as he leaned in closer.

"Just a centon," Hummer replied, making an adjustment. "Obviously, they crashed. I suspect the centurion was deactivated for a while before it reinitialised." He nodded at some readings. "Here we are . . ."

The screen flickered to life again.

The next thing Vulca computed, he was staring upwards through a wide gap in his ship's cockpit. He accessed his internal chrono. He had been inactive for over two centars. He straightened up and looked about. Outside, the port was partly covered in dirt and some sort of plant form was sticking through the gap. Obviously, the ship had crashed into the planet's surface.

"Report."

Centurion Carnifex was immobile and would never respond again, pinned to the control panel by his seat, thrown forward by the impact. He was also impaled by the vegetation, right through his chest assembly. Confector was attempting to rise, but was likewise pinned by his mangled seat. Ignoring his crew, Vulca freed himself from his seat and exited the craft through the rip in the hull. Internal gyros sluggish, he struggled to keep his feet as his systems tried to adjust to this world's gravity.

The ship had come down in a wilderness of desert characteristics, having hit the surface several hundred metrons back,and skidded in, finally impacting an outcrop of rock. Debris trailed behind it and one engine was leaking fuel. The fact that they were fortunate the ship had not exploded upon impact never occurred to the Cylon. Survival was merely filed away as data.

Vulca turned as a sound reached his sensors. He had detected and catalogued all the sounds so far. The wind, the surviving centurion inside the wreckage, his own sounds, but this was different. It was mechanized, though of an unfamiliar type. Amplifying the inputs and going to magnification and multi-spectral imaging, he soon located the direction the strange sounds were coming from. A vehicle was approaching at high speed across the desert. But its sound signature did not match anything in his data files. He calculated it would be here in less than two centons. Acting according to programming, he reached back inside the downed craft and retrieved a pulse rifle. He emerged just as the first of the vehicles came into view. It slowed. He could see that it was filled with humans.

"What the hell?" said one of the humans, though Vulca could not understand the language.

"Halt, humans!" he ordered.

"What the hell _is_ that thing, Sarge?" said another of the humans. "Them Russkies?"

"Don't look like any Russkies _I_ ever seen."

"How many ya get in Montana, Brown?"

Vulca opened fire, his first shot striking the first vehicle directly in the front. The engine exploded, blowing chunks in all directions. Almost at once, one of the humans returned fire. Several rounds struck Vulca. Slug-throwers. Primitive weaponry. Unconcerned, Vulca fired repeated, exterminating the humans as he'd been programmed. Screams echoed through the air as they began to scatter for cover. More arrived behind the first, and more shots were exchanged. Vulca continued to advance on them, destroying them. Then, a small object landed near him. Vulca looked down . . .

There was a bright flash of light and the image broke up into pixels. There were distorted images of what looked like people, then the screen went dark.

"That looked like a grenade," Roach said. "Wonder what happened next?"

"I think I can tell you," Grae replied, selecting one of the papers from his hand. "This is the official report from Sergeant Reynolds, the man in charge of that unit and the only survivor, although I'd love to get LM Dayton to find out where he ended up. Seems that the Cylon was blown off his feet and into the hull of the Raider. Hard. Suffice it to say that it didn't get up again. Reynolds reported back to his superior officer at the Roswell Army Air Base and it looks like within a couple of hours the Strategic Services Unit—in charge of secret intelligence and counter-espionage—from the War Office sent a unit of military intelligence officers to the site. The debris field was cordoned off, all roads to the crash site were shut down, and there was a blackout ordered on information getting out."

"The War Office, huh?" Colonel Bradshaw said. "Didn't it become part of the Department of Defence?"

"Yes, it did," replied Roach, leaning on the edge of the table with his fists "But the Strategic Services Unit was ultimately incorporated into the Central Intelligence Agency, which was created post-war in 1947." He grimaced, not liking where this was going. "What do _you_ know about the CIA and the Order of the Skull and Bones, Ryan?"

Ryan grinned. "You've been talking to LM, haven't you, Roach? She told me a while back that a Yale history professor, Gaddis Smith, was once quoted as saying that Yale had influenced the CIA more than any other university, giving the agency the atmosphere of a class reunion."

"I just knew that was coming," Roach sighed, dropping his head, shaking it.

"Further to that, we all know who the Director of the CIA reports to these days."

"The Director of National Intelligence," Roach replied, nodding. He straightened up and tugged at the hem of his uniform. "Still, it's a little thin."

"Maybe this will help," Dickins said, dropping a photograph on a table. It was an old black-and-white glossy, a bit yellowed and curled on the edge. It showed a group of men and one woman standing beside the wreckage of the Raider at the crash site in 1947. Most were dressed in military uniforms. A few wore civilian clothes. On the ground in front of them lay the battered remains of one of the centurions.

"I did glance at that. Who are they again?" Ryan asked, picking it up and turning it over as he sat down at the table. "Ah, men from the Strategic Services Unit. It even has their names listed."

"But one man _here_ isn't identified," Dickins told them, taking the photo, placing it on the table. He stabbed a forefinger at a well-dressed man in a three-piece suit who stood slightly apart from the others. Comparatively, from his bearing and stature, he looked like he was from another class of men altogether. Even in the old snapshot, he had the most . . . magnetic eyes. "This guy here."

"I didn't notice." Ryan looked up at the astronaut. "You know him?"

"Not personally, but I know _of _him. I saw some vid-feed on him during the short time I spent on the _Galactica_ with the Colonials." The general and Grae looked at him, surprised. "He'd made his appearance roughly a year before Starbuck sprang us from Motel Torg. They had him pegged as evil incarnate. He went, so Commander Adama told us, by the name of Count Iblis."

"Iblis . . ." Grae murmured. "I'm sure that's the name of the being that the Guardians warned Jess Dayton about."

"For good reason. He tried to kill her father when he was only a kid," Dickins replied. "Guess Dayton's daughter wouldn't be the executive director of WASA now if he'd succeeded." He dropped the photo. "Maybe I wouldn't have been blown halfway across the galaxy. Who knows?"

"She's the director now, by the way," Grae told him. "Our previous director was killed." He took the photo, looking at it again. "They said if we searched long and hard enough that we'd find him. Jaysus Murphy, here he is locked up behind blast doors at Area 51. Tell me, Captain Dickins, how different did Count Iblis look between this photo and the video you saw when you were with the Colonials?"

"Except for the clothes, he looked exactly the same," Dickins replied. "Even his hair was combed the same. One hundred and seven years later, he hadn't aged a day."

"That's impossible," Roach replied. "It just can't . . ."

"Like extraterrestrials? Like the government burying all of this?" Grae waved a hand, indicating the wrecked Raider and the whole hangar. "Like the Director of the National Intelligence ordering a hit on a nice guy like me?" he countered. "Makes me wonder if we put Iblis' picture into the National Intelligence data base just where _else_ in history Count Iblis would show up." He nodded to himself. "In fact, I can copy Iblis' image by taking a picture of it with someone's phone. Then I can send it to LM and see what she can dig up."

"You think she could find something?" asked Dickins.

"You kidding? If she tried hard enough, she could line up King Tut for an interview. She might get the results even quicker than National Intelligence. Who has a sat-phone?"

"I do," Roach replied, tossing it over. "My access code is 1-3-1-4."

"Thanks, General." Grae began punching buttons, and was soon lining up his shot. Then he added, "I'm going through a filter. You won't be able to trace her."

"I'm done chasing her, Ryan. Sounds like we're all after this Count Iblis guy now. Or whoever's working for him."

"Just as long as we're clear on that account," Grae replied, thumbing the keys on the sat-phone.

"You ain't just another pretty face, are you, kid," Dickins said approvingly, slapping Grae on the shoulder. He walked over to Roach, standing in front of him and crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, General. The time has come. What are you going to do?"

"Well, Captain, for starters I'm calling the President."

"You think it'll do a damned bit of good? Nobody knows how deep this cancer goes. What if he turns out to be in on the plot?"

"Let me tell you something, Captain, most of what I've believed to be true up until now has been chewed up, spat out, and thrown back in my face today. Even after all of that, I refuse to believe that the President of the United States of America could betray his own people, even unwittingly. He'll do the right thing."

"He'd better, General."

"I'll make sure of it."

xxxxx

Far away, LM Dayton watched as the image rolled out of the printer. She'd downloaded Ryan's transmission, zoomed in and printed the image of the man in question. For a moment, she just stared at it, slack-jawed. _What? Him? How in __. . ._

_"_Why you devil, you," she murmured, reaching for her laptop.

xxxxx

Author's note:

With many thanks to Senmut, beta-reader extraordinaire, for the Roswell flashback.


	36. Chapter Ten: Part Three

_"__Holy Carrot Creek!__"_

The sight that met Mark Dayton's eyes was quite simply astounding. For the moment he was struck dumb with amazement, while behind him Ryan let out a low whistle. Two larger than life-sized sentinels stood facing each other at the entrance to the pyramid's inner chamber, dressed in golden kilts and sandals, and armed with mace and staff. Within was a collection of ornately carved chests, a golden throne, decorative headdresses and jewellery, alabaster vases, detailed carvings of various animals, symbolic weapons, religious artefacts, musical instruments, and furniture—upon which, at second glance, rested several of the injured Barstow astronauts. Despite this, Dayton could feel his pulse quickening, bearing witness to treasures that until recently hadn't been seen by mankind for millennia. They had hit the mother lode here on Mars and no man was immune to a little gold fever.

Especially the son of an archaeologist.

Behind him, Cassiopeia slipped through the opening hatch of the air lock. Once it sealed behind them, she checked her suit readout. It blinked green. She doffed her helmet, pausing only a moment to take in the splendour. Then, as someone groaned, she immediately moved towards the small group of injured people with her med kit in hand. Even from the meagre distance, they looked like crap.

"Who . . ." began one of the injured, trying to straighten up in a chair that must have been worth almost a billion cubits. Cassie spoke, but he heard only gibberish.

"She's a medic. She's here to help," Curtis added hastily, removing his own helmet, as the Colonial woman repositioned her languatron and pulled out her biomonitor. Quickly he briefed his people on who the Colonials were. "Which means, people, we have a ride home."

There was a quiet answering murmur of enthusiasm from those who had obviously lost hope as they lay there surrounded by burial treasures that had to make more than one man wonder about his own transition into the afterlife.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Dr. Mufti said.

Dayton had been around enough archaeologists and scholars in his time to recognize the glow in the eye of the discoverer. Mufti was positively radioactive. "Could have given a guy a little warning, Doc. I thought we were going to be looking at symbols, not all this," he murmured, turning in a slow circle. The rectangular room had elaborate symbols and drawings on the walls, depicting scenes in the afterlife. Cameras, laser scanners, holo-recorders and other equipment littered the room, which had obviously been used to record images of the archaeological find. Dayton saw a table piled with objects and picked up an archaic illuminator, turning it over. Several objects appeared to be fashioned from gold, and many others were beautifully inlaid with gems. There were diamonds the size of hen's eggs, and r ubies as big as golf balls. Emeralds. Fire opals of incredible brilliance. Sapphires and myriad other semi-precious stones. There was everything an ancient lord, or whomever had ruled this settlement, needed to ensure a prosperous afterlife.

"Wow," Baker said briefly, turning around in a circle. "Just . . . _wow_."

"I'm looking at an eight-foot tall statue of a solid gold man, with a weird goatee," said Ryan, quietly. "I'm guessing that's important."

"Eat your heart out, King Tut," Dayton added.

"Except Dr. Mufti said they'd found no burial chamber," Baker said. "And I don't see a sarcophagus here."

"Then what's all this for?" Dayton replied.

"Maybe it was supposed to be the resting place of their lord, but the settlement was destroyed before the lord died," Apollo hazarded after removing his helmet. The air was a bit cold, but the oxygen content seemed adequate.

"Or at the same time, by the look of the damage," Baker added.

"Apollo, the tomb you found at Kobol," Ryan asked, "was it decked out the same way?"

Apollo shook his head, gazing around in wonder. "There had been tomb robbers at Kobol. But I would have never guessed that it was supposed to have all of _this_ . . . I wish my father could see it."

"Mine would be stuffing his pockets about now," Ryan muttered, running a hand lightly over the gold inlay on an ewer.

Malus' scanners declared that it was made of an incredibly thin layer of muscovite mica,_interwoven at a molecular level_with some kind of organic material at the boundary layer. Possibly the shell of a bird's egg, h_owever in hell they did that._ Ryan tore his glance away, calling over to Cassiopeia, "Do you need help, Cassie?"

"I'll let you know if I do, Paddy." She spared him a glance. "But thanks, Doctor Ryan."

"Your servant, darlin'."

"He's a doctor too?" asked one of the injured, a dehydrated woman with a blood-stained bandage on one hand.

"Yeah, but I'm sure my licence has expired by now." Ryan winked at her, handing her his canteen. There was no point in explaining that he had a doctorate in electrical engineering, not medicine. "But hey, I won't tell the CMA if you don't." Ryan glanced over at Mufti. "Now a guy has to figure that all this scratch would get Earth's attention in a _big_ way. Nothing gets the old salivary glands frothing like treasure."

"Yes, Dr. Ryan," Mufti agreed. "But as you can see, our excavation of this site had barely begun. We weren't ready to reveal our discovery to Earth quite yet." He looked expectantly at Apollo. "Is it Kobollian, Colonel? What do you think?"

"Definitely. The chamber is almost identical to the way the ninth lord's was laid out. However, on Kobol this room was a type of mausoleum." He pointed to the centre of the chamber which featured some kind of shrine. "And beneath it, about here, was hidden the sacred crypt of the Ninth Lord of Kobol."

Malus turned his scanner in that direction. "There is nothing indicating a hidden room below this, Colonel." He turned slowly, assessing the rest of the chamber. "My scanners show only solid stone for hundreds of metrons."

"No, we already determined that," Mufti agreed before waving a hand at the symbols on the walls. "These hieroglyphics tell of a fractured group of spacefarers that arrived on Earth, the bulk of them settling on two large continents."

"Only two?" asked Jolly. "Doesn't Earth have several continents?"

"Yes, but the Anunnaki . . . sorry, the _Kobollians_ seemed to choose to isolate themselves, at least at first. We do believe the continents they initially settled to be Atlantis and Lemuria."

"Atlantis and Lemuria?" Dayton asked incredulously. "Oh God, do you hear that?"

"What?" asked Mufti.

"That noise was my old man rolling over in his grave."

"Yes," smiled Mufti, understanding his reaction. "Do you realize that back in 1882, during a time of ignorance and total disbelief in things extraterrestrial, scholar Ignatus Donnelly in _Atlantis: The Antediluvian World_ wrote that the gods and goddesses of ancient mythologies were actually the kings and queens of Atlantis, a pre-Flood high-tech civilization from which sprang all subsequent human societies."

"I guess I missed that one," Dayton shook his head.

"We're more familiar with the Disney version," Ryan told them.

"Most people are," Mufti smiled. "And in 1909 Frederick Soddy, the British Nobel Prize-winning chemist, wrote that he believed that there had been civilizations in the past that were familiar with atomic energy, and that by misusing it they were totally destroyed. Unfortunately, just how this settlement on Mars evolved is still a mystery. There is nothing telling that story, or if there is, its message escapes me."

"Kind of strange in a people that chronicled their history so consistently," Dayton remarked. He looked at the unfinished areas of text. "But then maybe they never got the chance to." He looked over to his lady. "How are the patients, Cassiopeia?"

"Surprisingly good. I've medicated them to treat some early symptoms, but we've reached them in more than enough time to reverse any permanent damage," she replied, looking from her biomonitor to him. "We can finish the complete series of treatments back on the _Endeavour_."

"You mean we're going to be okay?" one woman asked tremulously.

Cassie smiled, lightly touching the woman's hand. "You're going to be just fine."

"Here's the symbol that I wanted to show you," Mufti told Dayton, crossing to where two more larger than life sentinels stood. Etched into the wall was a round hole about the size of an amulet, with rays shooting out all around it like beams of light. Inset in the hole was a symbol. Lia gasped.

"The All-Seeing Eye," Ryan said.

"Yes, very good, Dr. Ryan," Mufti nodded enthusiastically. "You know your symbology," Mufti said. "A God of the sun."

"Sagan's sake," Apollo breathed. "That symbol . . . it was at Kobol! On the outside of the pyramid. Let me think now . . ." He paused, running a hand over the hieroglyphics. "It was slightly different. The rays of light were only beneath the . . . the _eye_, as you called it."

"That sounds like the ancient Egyptian symbol for Aten, the god and sun-disc," Mufti added, nodding excitedly. "Please go on, Colonel."

Apollo nodded. "My father carries an amulet, the Seal of the Lords of Kobol, that represents his status as one of the members of our Quorum of Twelve. He placed his amulet into the stone and it opened the concealed crypt. But this imprint looks a little different. More like . . ."

"We've scanned these walls, Colonel Apollo," Curtis told him. "There's nothing concealed within them."

"Scans of Mars were reputedly done thirty years ago that didn't show any signs of this settlement either," Dayton pointed out. "Or so we were told."

"We have theorized that there is some intrinsic property in the dome that concealed all this," Curtis explained. "Like trying to do an x-ray through a block of lead."

"Some people wanted to rule out the theory that NASA just lied," Curtis added a little resentfully.

"So what makes you think a concealed chamber in this pyramid couldn't have been similarly hidden?" Dayton asked.

"The Dirt Theory," Mufti replied with a shrug. "As I said earlier, the machinery wouldn't work. It doesn't make sense."

"There comes a time when we should go on faith instead of science," Lia inserted, stepping forward. In her hand was her Empyrean talisman, which was unusual since the young woman seldom took it off and usually wore it around her neck. "This All-Seeing Eye . . . doesn't anybody notice how similar it is to our Empyrean talisman?"

"May I?" Dr. Mufti asked.

Lia nodded, handing it to him.

"The Eye of Horus," Mufti said, eyes widening as he held the talisman up. "Horus was an ancient Egyptian sky god, pictured in the form of a falcon; note the cheek markings around the eye denoting this. This symbol was historically used as protection against evil and purportedly gave the mummy the ability to "see again", this time in the afterlife. Curiously, it was also used in Buddism where Buddha was referred to as the Eye of the World."

"In our own tradition, the talisman represents protection and wisdom. It's supposed to give us an ability to see with clarity and truthfulness," Lia told them.

"Light-years away . . ." Ryan murmured in wonder.

"I understood that the All-Seeing Eye or the Eye of Providence was supposed to be the eye of God watching over us," Baker said. "It was on the reverse side of the dollar bill, if you remember."

"Part of the Great Seal of the United States used to authenticate certain documents issued by the government," Dayton nodded.

"The semi-circular _glory_—or the 'rays of light' that Apollo referred to—is well-known Masonic iconography that can be traced back to about 1800," Ryan inserted. "Boggles the mind that it's also on Kobol." He shook his head. "At least _this_ mind."

"Well?" Dayton asked, rolling his eyes. "C'mon, I just know you're bursting at the seams to bring up another conspiracy theory, Paddy."

"Nice segue, Oh Glorious Leader," Ryan chuckled. "Well, it is _interesting_, don't you think, how these things start? And of course people who study iconography eventually decided that the Eye of Providence or the All-Seeing Eye depicted atop an unfinished pyramid on the Seal of the United States . . ."

"_Great_ Seal," Dayton inserted.

"_Great _Seal of the United States," Ryan continued, "indicates the influence of Freemasonry in the founding of the US of A. What the heck was a pyramid even doing on the seal?"

"It was a symbol of strength and duration," Dayton replied.

"And not exactly one that the world associated with the United States," Ryan retorted.

"Remember the movie _National Treasure_?" Baker reminisced. "Wasn't that a ride?"

"It was a bloody movie," replied Dayton. "Like _Hangar 18_ and twaddle like that. The Great Seal took six years and three committees to design, and only one member was a Mason."

"A _confirmed_ Mason." Ryan nodded. "Ben Franklin. But George Washington is also on the dollar bill. I once heard that thirty-three of his generals during the American War of Independence were Freemasons."

"Where did you hear that, Paddy?" Baker asked.

"You Tube, I think," replied the astronaut with a grin.

Dayton snorted. "_National Treasure_. God spare me!"

"Even so, Mark," began Ryan, "Did you know that one of the most notable Freemasons of all time, Albert Pike, wrote a book that he called the _Book of the Words._" Ryan chuckled as the Colonials seemed to collectively gasp at the almost identical wording to their holy book, the _Book of the Word, _while Dayton scowled. "It was about the hidden Masonic meanings of significant words in the mysterious Scottish Rite. Does make you wonder, eh?"

"Makes me wonder, all right. Makes me wonder about your sanity," Dayton ribbed him good-naturedly. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me, Paddy, just how far back does Freemasonry date?"

"Not _officially_ as far as the pyramids, if that's what you're getting at," Ryan returned. "Renaissance, I think."

"Late thirteenth or fourteenth century, depending on the source," Mufti told them. "But many believe that Freemasonry grew out of even earlier traditions of the Rosicrucians."

"Interestingly . . ." Ryan began.

"I feel a shudder go down my spine every time he says that word," Dayton remarked.

Ryan snorted. "Then I'll say it again. _Interestingly_, Rosicrucian philosophy can be traced through Plato and Pythagoras right back to ancient Egypt, some fifteen hundred years before Christ." He waited a beat. "At least."

"I'm impressed, Dr. Ryan," Mufti nodded his obvious approval. "You're quite right. A Masonic author named Mackay even claimed that the Craft of Masonry was invented at the building of the Tower of Babel, and then traced it to Euclid, who established it in Egypt ,whence it was brought by the Israelites into Judea, and there again established by David and Solomon at the building of the Temple, then to France, and then England . . ."

"_Interesting_," Baker said. "Ryan being right, that is," he added after a beat.

"So this symbol could have actually been passed down from Kobol and resurrected millennia later on Earth," Apollo said. "Perhaps something found in an archive . . . something pointing to a link with another world, another star system."

"Enough to inspire conjecture and theories, but not enough to get the scientific respect it deserved," Curtis added, looking around him. "Until now."

"Yes. Quite," Mufti nodded in enthusiasm. "Getting back to the Eye of Horus, I must add that there was a hieroglyphic in the Egyptian Temple of Edfu that depicted Horus flying through the heavens on a winged disc."

"Egyptian gods were often depicted travelling the sky, Earth and underworld in some sort of celestial boats," Dayton added, nodding slowly. "More evidence pointing to the ancient astronaut theory." He paused. "I wonder . . . was someone trying to purposely destroy the evidence? To sever the ancient link with Kobol?"

"Why?" Apollo asked.

"Have you heard of the Brookings Institute and its _Proposed Study on the Implications of Peaceful Space Activities For Human Affairs_?" Mufti asked.

Dayton nodded. "Yeah. Go on."

"It was a NASA sponsored study carried out in the late 1950s," Mufti said, "authored by, among others, the anthropologist Margaret Mead. Its stated purpose was to identify long-range goals of the space program and their possible impact on society. The most disturbing part of the report to policy makers was its thinly-veiled authoritative warnings regarding what could happen to our civilization if NASA's 1950s-style extraterrestrial predictions were confirmed. It stressed that anthropological files contained many examples of societies sure of their place in the universe, which had _disintegrated_ simply from knowing that we're not alone. Then it discussed what to do if the space agency, at some point in the future, actually made such a momentous, world-changing confirmation of extraterrestrial intelligence or even of their ruins and artefacts. The report implicitly asked: How might such information, under what circumstances, be presented to or withheld from the public, for what ends? What might be the role of the discovering scientists and other decision makers regarding release of the fact of discovery?"

"And in 1976 a bunch of anomalous objects were discovered in the Cydonia region, here on Mars," Curtis added. "And NASA explained away each and everyone of them, dismissing any possible connection with life on Mars."

"What did you find there? In Cydonia?" Ryan asked.

"Ruins. Traces of another settlement, different from this one, but no less incredible. Most of the so-called conspiracy theories weren't far off. If only Richard Hoagland was still alive to see it. However, most of it was annihilated with very little left to tell a tale. It was either a nuclear explosion or some kind of cataclysmic impact. But what's left of this settlement, against the odds, was actually intact."

"Don't get me wrong, I find it interesting, but I'm like a daggit on a sunspot waiting to find out what will happen next!" Jolly inserted. "Lia, try your talisman. Maybe something will open!" He held out his hand, taking the talisman from a clearly sceptical Dr. Mufti to return it to the ensign. "Frankly, I don't even understand why you took it off. How . . .?"

"I just had this feeling that I needed to be able to put my hands on it, Jolly," Lia replied, moving towards the All-Seeing Eye on the wall that so closely resembled another at Kobol. "I know it doesn't make much sense, but I had to follow my instincts, like Ama always told me." Hesitantly, she reached out, her empty, gloved hand resting slightly above the stone. "There's an energy here," she murmured almost reverently.

"Energy?" Curtis asked. "What do you mean? There's nothing detectable on our instruments."

"And I have scanned it as well," added Malus, "on every wavelon and frequency I possess. I read only stone."

"That's not the energy I'm referring to, Commanders," the young Empyrean ensign and abdicated princess of the Empyrean throne replied. She lifted her talisman, placing it over the centre of the "eye", but not yet inserting it fully. "Dearest Triquetra, reveal your secrets," she whispered, her hand hesitating for a moment.

"Oh, Mighty Isis," Ryan added for good luck.

"Shazam," Baker said.

Abruptly, the talisman dropped to the ground. Lia jumped back as if struck, losing her balance and tumbling to the floor. Even then she scrambled backwards on all fours.

"Lia?" Jolly asked uncertainly.

"There's something _wrong_, Jolly," she replied, shaking her head, looking at the symbol on the wall in sudden fear.

"What?" he asked, kneeling down beside her. "What is it?"

"Lia, what's going on?" Apollo asked.

"Oh, the hell with this!" Johnson snapped, snatching up the talisman and slamming it into place.

"No!" Lia screamed. "_Don't_!"

A moment later there was a vibration in the floor. It was followed by a loud grating noise that filled the chamber. An immense stone began to retract as the entire pyramid began to shake.

"What happened to your Dirt Theory, Doctor?" Dayton asked Mufti, diving for cover as pieces of the structure began to crumble and dust filled the air.

"As you Americans say," Mufti cried, his arms covering his head, "back to the drawing board!"

xxxxx

Ama had always said that patience wasn't exactly one of Lu's virtues. Finally, after long excruciating centons, she was in communication range of the _Endeavour_'s Hybrid fighters.

"Phoenix Leader, this is Ensign Luana! Do you read?"

"_Lu_?" Lieutenant Rooke's voice came over the comm, sounding like sweet music to her ears. "_I hear you, but I don't see you_. _You're not on my scanner_."

"They don't call it a Wraith for nothing, Rooke," Lu replied, grinning.

"_What's the situation? The Endeavour picked up some pretty strange Earth media reports about our fearless strike captain_."

"Speaking of the _Endeavour_, where is she?" Lu returned. "I still haven't picked her up on my scanner?"

"_Rescuing a small colony of Earthmen on Mars_," Rooke replied. "_Report, Ensign_. _What's the situation_?"

"How long does it take to rescue a small colony of Earthmen?" Lu replied. "Rooke, I've been picking up patrols of Raiders from here to Earth! I haven't spotted their Base Ship yet, but with the amount of firepower they're sending, I'm guessing they're preparing to launch an attack!"

"_Frack_," came the muted reply. Then, "_I picked up something fleetingly on the edge of my scanner range, so that's answers that question. How many Raiders_?"

"At least a squadron," she replied.

"_I'll notify Endeavour. Alright, Phoenix Squadron, there are more of them then us, but that's nothing new. From here on, let's stick to the Cylon vocal modulators. Maybe we can surprise our cybernetic targets. Lu, you maintain communications silence and full ECM."_

"Won't vocal modulators scare the Earthmen if they pick us up?" Lu asked. "They'll think we're Cylon."

"_Commander Cain taught me never to give away the tactical advantage_," the former _Pegasus_ pilot replied. "_I'm guessing Earth will forgive me once we start incinerating Cylons_."

"I'm guessing you're right," she replied wryly. Rooke had come a long way since being rescued on the pirate base with the Earthmen and Dorado. In fact, all of them had. She adjusted her course to rendezvous with Phoenix Squadron, pausing to take a deep breath as her vision blurred and her body started tingling all over. She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous. "What the _frack_ . . ."

" . . . _Lu! Come in, Luana! Do you read_? _Are you there_?"

Lu sucked in a deep breath, feeling the dizziness and tingling begin to recede just as suddenly as it had appeared. Her vision sharpened and she checked her display.

"_Come in, Lu_!" Rooke demanded.

"I'm . . . I'm here," she told him shakily. "What happened?"

"You tell me! We picked up some kind of energy wavelon spike, sort of like when Eirys was using the Oculus for her interdimensional kidnapping last secton."

"Kind of felt like that . . ." she murmured, running a diagnostic on her bird. It had happened before that some kind of Espridian programming had overrode her manual capabilities on the Wraith. "Everything is nominal, Rooke. Whatever it was . . . well, it's stopped."

"Ensign, you just lit up the scanner like the Caprican Summer Solstice Festival."

"I'll have to take your word for that, Rooke," replied the Empyrean.

"We're trying to maintain a _low_ profile here, Lu."

"I got that. I'll do my best to not radiate any further wavelons, Lieutenant."

There was a brief silence on the line. "You're spending _way_ too much time with Starbuck . . ."

"Yes, sir," she smiled. "I've heard that."

xxxxx

General Roach had four stars on each shoulder. He had graduated top of his class at the Academy. Hell, he was the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force . . . and suddenly _persona non grata_ at the White House. Every attempt to reach the President had been met with road blocks. He'd been hung up on so many times he was beginning to feel like a telephone solicitor. He hated to say it—hated it so much, in fact, that he felt sick just thinking about it—but it had all the indications of some kind of conspiracy in National Intelligence that went all the way to the Oval Office.

Did the President know what was being done right under his nose? What if . . .

"Problems?" Grae Ryan asked him.

The man could be so annoying. Make that _damned_ annoying, but his reputation spoke for itself. Not only that, but Ryan seemed to have the right contacts. What was a general who suddenly found himself on the outside to do? Start making plans to open up an inn in Vermont? Hope that some Crosby and Kaye wannabes would come through with a floor show when it didn't snow?

"I, uh . . . appear to have been ostracized," Roach admitted, slowly hanging up the phone. Colonel Bradshaw looked at him, mouth agape. For the moment, Roach felt completely overwhelmed. Every usual avenue had been closed to him. Even the other Chiefs of Staff weren't accepting his calls. One snarky bitch had actually asked him if he'd found Elvis Presley yet. Another had inquired who had really shot JFK. "I can't get through to the President."

Ryan nodded soberly, looking back at Dickins and Hummer, both still sifting through the Cylon artefacts. "We gotta get out of here while we still can, General."

"I'm _not_ going into hiding, Ryan!" Roach replied indignantly. "I'll stand and fight!"

"I'm not suggesting you _hide_, General. I'm suggesting we get away from a secure military base that Mason probably has more clout at than you do!" Ryan said. "I'm all for fighting, but I'd rather do it when I have half a chance!"

"Remember Sun-Tzu, General. Pick your battlefield," Colonel Bradshaw said quietly.

"I can't _believe_ this is happening!" Roach said, only half hearing the other. "It's like some kind of _Twilight Zone_ nightmare."

"Hey, I've been saying that most of my adult life, General," Ryan replied. "You'll get used to it."

xxxxx

"What the _frack_ was that?" Dorado demanded in the Control Centre of the _Endeavour_, as he reached out a shaky hand to steady himself. It was an ingrained human reaction, probably needless in this case. His eratz mechanized legs, with their internal micro-gyros, had begun to stabilize him almost before he was aware of it. But he still felt slightly nauseous, his equilibrium upset, like he'd just been doing Academy high G training. The ship and everything aboard it had spontaneously_ rippled_, leaving him feeling as though they had just shot through another wormhole, or had crossed between dimensions. A cold shiver ran down his spine as his stomach roiled. He swallowed down the acrid taste of bile in his throat. "Get me Coxcoxtli!" he barked. A moment later he was connected with Engineering. "Report!"

"_It was a spontaneous surge from the Clavis, Captain_!" Coxcoxtli cried over the comm, his eyes wide with astonishment and fear on the vid-feed. "_I was trying to shut it down, sir_!"

"Turn the knob the _other_ way next time, kid," Porter suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

"_Captain, I'm really out of my depth, sir. I need Malus_," Coxcoxtli admitted.

"Acknowledged. But he doesn't happen to be in my back pocket."

"Captain, we've shifted position in orbit slightly. Two degrees to port, sir," a pale looking Sagaris said from his station. "Also, our altitude has increased by twenty-three kilometrons."

"That seems to be the _least_ of my worries," Dorado murmured quietly, nodding at the young man. Scouts had picked up no signs of the _Abaddon_ Base Ship, but had spotted several Cylon patrols, only just managing to stay beyond their scanner range. Recent improvements to the scanner array based on more advanced Colonial technology had boosted their range by almost a full ten percent, giving them a slight edge over their more antiquated Cylon counterparts. He hoped it was enough. "Pierus, anything from the Mars Base?"

"Nothing, sir. Our signal just isn't getting through."

"I can't believe they didn't leave anyone with the shuttle!" Dorado exclaimed, shaking his head. Something could have gone wrong, and at this point, he had no way of knowing. "Try and remotely activate the shuttle's comm-relay."

"Already tried, sir. All I get is dead air."

"Keep trying."

"I . . . Captain, we're receiving an encoded message from Phoenix Squadron Leader."

"Rooke," Dorado nodded, feeling marginally better that his old wingman was the one leading a squadron of relative greenhorns on their way to Earth. "What's he say?"

"They've rendezvoused with Ensign Luana, sir. She reported a Cylon force heading for Earth. A squadron of Raiders, Captain. Phoenix Squadron is en route."

"Okay, enough is enough. Send a patrol of two Hybrids to the surface to locate Commander Dayton. We need to get our team back here ASAP!"

xxxxx

Baltar's face was one of tortured agony as he shook his head despondently at Starbuck while the Cylon Raider bore down on the civilian airliner. Even having someone inquire if he was a Colonial god hadn't cheered him up. "There's nothing I can do," he said, "however much I wish it was different, Starbuck."

Starbuck let out a cry of anger and frustration, curling his hands into fists and slamming one down on a console as he watched and listened, one of more than twenty people impotently witnessing the horror. Baikonur Control had picked up the commercial flight's frequency and the panicked voices of the pilots flooded the room. Newly accessed satellite imagery, split-screened with real-time vid feed from the airliner's nose camera, showed the Raider diving on the JAXA Supersonic Transport from one o'clock. She screamed in, a volley of suddenly erupting laser fire cutting through the airplane. One engine burst into flame, half the wing sliced off, and the plane listed ever so briefly to the side. Then a second blue spear of light sliced the fuselage in two. With a bright flash, the airliner exploded in a fiery cloud of smoke that obliterated all else.

"Dear God . . ." The voice was choked.

"At least it was . . . quick."

"How is it powered, this fighter?" Surkov asked slowly, his voice impassive.

It took Starbuck a moment to find his voice. How many times had he heard a life snuffed out over his own comm while in combat? But hundreds of civilians dead, all because of one Raider that _he_ hadn't managed to neutralize . . . He shook it off, trying to convince himself that he'd done his best, that it wasn't his fault. This was no time for self-recriminations. He blew out a breath. "It's powered by two high energy . . ." he stopped, realizing he was speaking Caprican Standard by the look on Surkov's face. He consciously switched to Earthspeak, wondering if something was malfunctioning with the implant. Maybe he'd sneezed too hard . . . "Two high-energy fusion reactors, fed by a tylium energizer. Each one of those lasers pack approximately twenty-five to thirty of your megawatts." The colonel general frowned at him in confusion. Again. Then it hit him: "She's running hot, if that's what you're asking. Surface-to-air missiles . . ." He prayed it would work, that their firepower was powerful enough.

"Contact Aktobe. Destroy it," Surkov barked to Katko. She abruptly relayed the order. They all remained glued to the screen, watching the available telemetry.

"You were right, Starbuck," Jess said quietly from beside him, tears tracking down her face.

"About what?" he asked, absently rubbing his fingers over the scar on his chest. It was tingling.

"Cylons do wake up cranky," she replied, wiping her face. She raised her voice, turning to address those assembled. "Over three hundred people just lost their lives so our so-called world leaders would know beyond doubt that _this_ is what the Cylons are offering us." She clenched her hands, which were shaking in impotent fury. "There is no allegiant truce. There is only death." She turned to Mirskii. "Get me Hayashi in Guiana. If he doesn't have this file, send it to him. We need to forward it to every world leader we can reach."

"Of course," Surkov nodded. "I'll contact President Kuzmin." He strode to another station.

"Tell me more of these Cylons ships, Captain Starbuck," Katko demanded. "Strengths, weaknesses, what will it take to defeat them?"

"Well, first you have to understand that the average Cylon centur. . ."

"_Shh_! Repeat!" Orlov was speaking into his head-set, holding a hand to his ear. "That cannot be!" He turned to stare at Starbuck, shaking his head in apparent disbelief at the information he was receiving. "It's impossible!"

"What now?" Starbuck asked.

"Your ship, Captain," Orlov said. "They say it just disappeared and then reappeared again a moment later."

"But . . . Who was . . ."

"Nobody has been able to access it, Captain. We did nothing," Katko immediately defended her commander, before turning to Orlov. "Still, he is right. It is impossible, Orlov."

"The Clavis," Starbuck murmured quietly, dread sweeping over him as he abruptly thought about Luana's safety. Both the Clavis and the Wraiths were Espridian, and there was still a lot that they didn't understand about the technology of the psionic beings that the Cylons had exterminated over a hundred yahrens before. He remembered the report recording that Lu's Wraith had gone into autopilot over the Espridian planet. Was there some connection between the Wraith ships and the Clavis as well? "There's another ship out there, like mine . . ."

"No longer, Starbuck. Luana has left Earth's orbit," Baltar told him.

"_What_? For where, Baltar?" Starbuck demanded.

"Eh?" Orlov asked frowning. He glanced at Jess, tapping the middle of his forehead. "Is he quite right?"

"I'm not even going to inquire," she replied. "This other ship, Starbuck, we would have picked it up on radar . . ."

"I doubt it, it has the most highly advanced electronic countermeasures I've ever seen," he told Jess before returning his attention to Baltar. "Well?"

"She's safe, Starbuck," Baltar assured him. "That's all I can tell you."

Starbuck ground his teeth together, sucking in a breath between his teeth, and fighting the urge to get in a debate with Baltar. After all, it would only end with all these people thinking he was smoking plant vapours. The wannabe angel smiled at him wryly, likely drawing the same conclusion and finding it highly amusing. The strike captain turned away from 'the smile', preferring the view to his immediate right. "Then she must have gone to rendezvous with my base ship, Jess." He rubbed at his throbbing temple, turning towards Katko, suddenly realizing he was flanked by two terrifically beautiful women. _Lords, you must be slipping, Bucko, to have only now noticed _. . . "Have they fired the missiles yet, Colonel?"

"Da," she replied, studying the telemetry. "It's away."

"Okay, tell me about the missiles you just used. Everything. What kind of tracking scanners do they use?" Starbuck asked the colonel. She stared at him indignantly and he realized her own demand that he tell her all about the Raider's specs had been lost in the moment of his disappearing Wraith. She stood erect, crossed her arms, and opening her mouth. Marriage _had_ taught him one or two things about women, especially when they no longer found him irresistible. Quickly, he inserted, "I have an idea that _could_ work, but I need your input, Colonel Katko. We need to work together."

She narrowed her eyes for a micron, studying him, before visibly relaxing. "Alright."

He listened intently as she began to fill him in on the Russian missiles and their defensive network. What were the odds that this would work? And if it didn't what else could they do in the limited time they had? He threw his brain into tactical mode, recalling and computing every bit of minutiae he'd ever learned about Cylon tech, especially that concerning historical upgrades from one class of Raider to the next, keeping in mind how they had refitted their own Hybrids.

A burst of Russian streamed from an officer at his station, and the room deflated with disappointment. It seemed the WASA employees consistently used "Earthspeak" while the military spoke their own "Russian" language.

"What?" Starbuck asked, innately knowing the answer.

"Telemetry indicates destruction of the missiles by the enemy ship," Jess told him. "No hits."

"Well, Captain?" Katko demanded. "What is your idea?"

"These Raiders are about a century old, Earth time. Obviously, there have been a few developments since then," the warrior said, while Surkov joined them. "Colonial scientists discovered way back when that strong microwave bursts on certain frequencies would momentarily blind their scanners. Does that make sense to you?"

"It does," Surkov nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But what about the missile targeting system?"

"Colonel Katko indicated that your missiles target with a multi-spectral scanner, rotating randomly across the electromagnetic spectrum to avoid any possible attempts at jamming. So it shouldn't interfere."

"It might work," Katko nodded, looking to the colonel general. "It is worth a chance."

"What frequency?" Surkov demanded, already crossing to a station to relay the strategic information to the Aktobe Base.

"Between .01 and 0.22 of your centimetres, at a frequency of . . ." Starbuck trailed off, dredging up something from a first-year Academy class that he'd desperately wanted to sleep through at the time. "A frequency of approximately 234.0077 Gigacycles. I think you call them . . . Hertz." Someone tapped his shoulder and he turned around. A young woman was there, pressing a steaming cup of dark liquid into his hands. It smelled like java. "Thanks."

"You have not tasted it yet, Captain _Starbucks_," she replied wryly in what he realized now was a Russian accent.

"So it comes with a warning?" he smiled at her, noticing that several people were watching with interest. "What do you call it?"

"Coffee," she replied, flushing prettily under his scrutiny. "I hope it is acceptable? Yes?"

He took a sip. The coffee was a bit sweet, but it had been so long since he'd had any sustenance that it tasted heavenly. "Ah, yes. Giver of life." He nodded at her, taking another sip, while the people watching them started smirking in apparent amusement. He'd missed something, but at least it was providing them all with a much needed diversion in a tense situation. He was willing to play the game. "What's your name?"

"Lara."

"_Lara._ That's a pretty name. Does it mean something?"

"Not that I am aware of. It is a . . . a character from a famous historical novel." She tilted her head, smiling. "What does 'Starbuck' mean in your culture?"

"It doesn't mean anything, either." He shrugged. "It's just a name . . . which you Earth people—_and_ my commander—seem to associate with . . ." he held up the cup, "_coffee_. Why is that?"

"Well . . ."

"Director, just in from the Sentinel Eight probe!"

"Put it on screen," Jess ordered, gasping as the probe transmitted the data. Waves of Cylon Raiders filled the screen. On another screen the video telemetry from one of the Russian missiles was displayed. The Cylon Raider grew larger, filled the screen, then it all went blank. One of the techs whooped as the telemetry confirmed a kill. The Raider that had destroyed the supersonic transport exploded in a vast plume of fire and smoke. A missile had found its target. Even with the small victory, the control room was absolutely silent in the face of this impending attack. .

"Frack," Starbuck muttered, raking a hand through his hair. He moved to a console, checking the Mars situation. The _Endeavour_ was _still_ in orbit. Unless they screamed this way at light-speed starting now, there would be no help from that quarter anytime soon.

"And then some," Jess added, then turned to a WASA tech. "How far out?"

"482 799 miles."

"How long have we got?" Jess asked Starbuck.

"What's their speed?" he asked, taking another drink of the sweet java, feeling the combination of saccharine and caff surge through his blood. He frowned at the answer. Almost 800,000 kilometres or half a million miles per hour. He did a quick calculation into Colonial units. He frowned again.

"Starbuck?" she asked again.

"About a centar . . . uh, hour."

"What are our chances?"

"That depends."

"On?" Surkov asked.

"On how quickly can you pass the word to the rest of Earth's military about the microwave bursts. And if their missile tracking systems are sufficiently similar to yours."

Surkov snorted. "We do not have a universal military, only hundreds of individual ones that do not work together. Our politicians will need to coordinate anything of that magnitude, and we don't have the time to await them."

"Then we need to bring the Cylons to _us_," Starbuck decided.

"How do we do that?" Jess asked.

"We start by getting their attention," Starbuck replied, looking at Baltar and grinning. "You're going to love this."


	37. Chapter Eleven: Part One

Chapter Eleven

Other than a vague and inconclusive correlation that he could make with the Clavis, it really didn't make sense in any way that he could explain it to the Earthlings. Or to himself, for that matter . . . which right now was good enough for Starbuck.

The Wraith which had barely held together after taking a hit from a Cylon Raider was now seemingly intact, not a malfunction on record as Starbuck check his ship for the third time straight. According to the flight recorder she was a hundred percent, from nose to thrusters. The previously blistered and fractured fuselage appeared as good as the day she came off the assembly line . . . if that was how they built them on the Espridian planet. Colonel Katko and Jess Dayton were waiting for an explanation, and he really didn't have one to offer them. It made him a little nervous, knowing how volatile these Earthlings could be. If he acted nonchalant about it, would they try to burn him at the stake? If he didn't, would they waste more valuable time quibbling about it?

"Well?" Jess asked again as he climbed down from the cockpit. "Anything?"

"She's regenerated," Starbuck said, deciding after being thoroughly decontaminated inside and out, that further cleansing through burning would be entirely redundant, at least from his point of view. His shiny white uniform—courtesy of Baltar, no doubt—would attest to as much. "Good as new."

"This is _normal_ with your ships?" Katko asked incredulously, climbing the Wraith to peek inside the cockpit, now that he was out of it. "Self-repairing to this extent?"

"No," he shook his head, rubbing the cloth of his tunic that covered the tingling scar on his chest. Meanwhile, a military vehicle raced down the runway towards them. "But it's one Hades of an idea. I'll have to pitch it to the Fleet Commander next time I see him."

"How do you explain . . .?" Katko pressed him.

"I can't."

"But you must . . ."

"Why?"

"There must be explanation . . ."

"Well, someone smarter than _me_ will have to find it then," Starbuck shrugged insouciantly.

"Form a line on me," Baltar said with a smile.

Starbuck raised an eyebrow at him before turning away to look off across the blackness of the steppes. Drawn to the quiet and the solitude, he began slowly walking away, leaving Katko, Jess and everyone else behind for a few centons of precious peace. He could sense the WASA director's gaze on him. Needing a quiet moment, he bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples lightly. His lips quirked slightly, as he realized she would probably think he was praying again. If it awarded him a moment's peace, it would be worth the ruse. The warm wind blew gently through his hair as the cry of a bird pierced the darkness. Again, his gaze swept out over the darkness. It was so like his home world, yet so . . . so _different_. It looked so deceptively peaceful. A deadly calm. There were billions of people out there who had no idea that a deadly squadron of Cylons was Earthbound right now, intent on completing the annihilation of the human race.

"It's a desolate place, but with a strange beauty all its own," Baltar said beside him. "Rather compelling, is it not?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," Starbuck murmured quietly.

"It reminds me . . . reminds me of the Ossian Prairie, back on Piscon," the ascended man said slowly. "I played there often as a boy." Baltar's voice shuddered with sadness and yearning.

"You miss it."

"More than you know, Starbuck. More than I can find words to say."

Starbuck drew in another deep breath of fresh air, nodding. He glanced at the former traitor, finally having the opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him since the guardian weevil had suddenly appeared. "What happened on Morlais, Baltar?"

Baltar looked at him in surprise.

"Llewelyn, Glynn, Eirys, Caradoc, the Oculus . . . what happened? I mean _really_ happened?"

Baltar was silent for a long moment, before responding. "It is said in Morlais that when Count Iblis disappeared, he left his mark. The Oculus was already a revered icon, but its power and importance became legendary, Starbuck. Perhaps we were naïve, living in a society where spiritual values and wisdom, altruism, benevolence and kindness dominated, but it never occurred to us that a fellow Angylion would try to steal it." He sighed again. "Treason is not unique to mankind, my young friend."

"Someone stole the Oculus?" Starbuck echoed.

Baltar's silence spoke volumes.

"What about Eirys? She was the Keeper of the Oculus. What happened to her?"

"Yes. She _was_ the Keeper of the Oculus. She was also my wife, Starbuck," Baltar replied sombrely.

Their sealing didn't surprise him. Eirys and Baltar had looked dang cozy when she had used the Oculus to cross dimensions one last time to the _Endeavour_'s brig to take him back to Morlais. Admittedly, the strike captain of the Covert Operations Ship had been torn as whether to let a man who had betrayed the Twelve Colonies of Man have a complete chance at redemption in another dimension, instead of rotting in a prison cell for the rest of his natural life. At times Starbuck still had a hard time reconciling himself to the fact that he had let them go. Then again, if Baltar was standing here beside him as a Being of Light, perhaps he _had_ made the right decision after all.

"_Was_," Starbuck repeated, noting the tense. "Go on."

"In an ironic twist of events, General Caradoc turned against us, Starbuck."

Caradoc had been Baltar's "doublewalker"—his twin spirit—in that other dimension. The general had been faithful and devoted to Eirys in every way when the Colonials had visited Morlais. For him to flip . . .

"Caradoc?" Starbuck said in disbelief. "But . . ."

"Jealousy is a powerful motivator."

"Ah . . ." he realized. Both Baltar and his doublewalker had loved the same woman.

"But I believe that somehow Count Iblis planted that seed. He introduced an evil that had never touched the Angylions before, in all their collective memory. Even as the rest of society continued to spiritually grow and develop, there was a secret segment led by Caradoc that _devolved_, that seemed to embrace jealousy, umbrage, arrogance, egotism, characteristics that simply weren't Angylion."

"Uh, no offence, Baltar, but that sounds like . . ."

"Yes, like me. I know."

"Are you saying that when Eirys took you back to Morlais, something . . ." He didn't really know how to voice it.

"A natural balance in the universe was interrupted, Starbuck. Two doublewalkers existing concurrently on the same spiritual plain for yahrens on end, it was never meant to be. There was a shift in the order of the universe, not that I claim to fully understand it."

"I'm not sure I get it either. I mean, Caradoc was so _honourable_ . . ."

"Yes. But the very same general who would have once sacrificed anything for Eirys and Morlais, killed her to take the Oculus."

"Where were you?"

"Caradoc was a warrior in the truest sense of the word, Starbuck. I was no physical or martial match for him. My greatest personal failure is that I could not even defend my wife, the light of her people and . . . my joy." He closed his eyes briefly in grief.

"Sagan's sake, Baltar . . ." Starbuck murmured, feeling guilty at his treatment of the Being of Light. How quickly he had forgotten all the good Baltar had done while they were in Morlais and the reasons he had let the man go free. Forgiveness didn't appear to come naturally to him. "I don't know what to say . . ."

Baltar sniffed wryly, opening his eyes and smiling at the warrior. "_Another_ imbalance in the universe, Starbuck?"

"Eirys was a fine woman, Baltar."

"The finest."

"Then Count Iblis . . ."

Baltar nodded. "His influence was felt even beyond his confinement. Even in his prison he did not cease nor rest from evil. His vile, diseased will seeped out to find footholds and willing tools everywhere. And the Oculus, the one thing that could free him and give him omnipotence even beyond the restrictions placed upon him by our kind, will soon be within his grasp."

Starbuck let out a ragged breath. "Oh, great! The entire universe hangs in the balance, and I'm right in the centre of it."

"You always did like to be the centre of attention." Baltar smiled. "But then I understand from Ama that when the Empyreans first found you on their planet that they referred to you as their Saviour. That there was a part of an ancient prophecy by the Great Kaula that said 'he will unite us and make us strong'. I'm sure you can see the relevance in that to uniting all of humanity now."

It had taken Starbuck sectars for his fellow warriors to stop ribbing him about him being some kind of Empyrean 'saviour' when their people had first joined the Fleet. He moved to face Baltar, before restraining the urge and again looking out over the steppes. "I'm only going to say this once, Baltar I'm just a _warrior_, not any kind of _saviour_. I'm here because of _duty_, not destiny. I reckon that you can find relevance in most scripture and prophecy if you search long and hard enough and really _want_ to find it. As far as I'm concerned, it's all just a lot of mumbo jumbo."

"Is it?" the Being of Light smiled. "Humility is a great virtue, and admittedly, one that I never really associated with you until now."

"I try to tone it down; it wreaks havoc on my reputation," Starbuck replied, falling back on levity, knowing it would effectively end the discussion. "Anything _else_ you want to spring on me?"

"I believe that will suffice for now."

Starbuck rubbed his eyes, guessing it must have been almost thirty-six centars since he'd had a decent sleep. He didn't include the drug-induced coma they had put him into. Jess had tried to pump him full of consumables and had recovered his pressure suit and uniform, attempting to make up for his previous treatment. Truth be known, he'd barely touched the Earth food, eating more to keep up his energy than because of hunger. Far behind him, Russians were muttering to each other in their own language as they discussed the Wraith. Lords, there had to be a couple dozen pilots ogling the recon ship. He didn't know whether to crow with pride or to tell them to get their paws off his bird. He did neither as Jess nudged him.

"Are you finished your prayers?" she asked hesitantly.

"Prayers? Uh . . . yeah. For now, anyhow."

"You're very devout, aren't you?" She looked a little surprised by that.

"Aren't we all before combat?" he replied, smiling at her.

She smiled uncertainly. "I don't quite know what to make of you, Starbuck."

"I'm a simple guy," he shrugged. "What you see is what you get."

"I'm not sure I believe that," she replied, turning as the military transport stopped near them. "Are you sure about all this?"

"Absolutely," he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

Soldiers dropped the tailgate of the vehicle and a moment later Lucifer hit the tarmac in front of him, his Cylon EMA-controlled micro-gyros correcting an imbalance that would have sent a human tumbling to the ground. Since using the Earth 'taser' to disable him, the Cylon had evidently reinitialised its systems.

"Now, what was that you were saying about 'it would go better for me if I showed a little respect', Lucifer?" Starbuck needled the IL. In a moment of accord, Baltar laughed aloud behind him.

"Where is Director Borodin?" the IL demanded. "What has become of him?"

"In the Brig, Lucy. You didn't really believe that these fine people would take the word of a Cylon over a hot shot Colonial Warrior like me for long, do you?"

"Every additional moment I spend in your company, the more I realize that you are more like Baltar than I had first estimated," the IL returned.

"Really?" Starbuck drawled. Oddly, that didn't bother him as much as it might have at another time. "Well, Bub, you and I are going to take a little trip together to bring your Cylon friends into a perfectly planned trap."

"Ah, they have arrived." The lights in his 'head' seemed to speed up for a moment. "I will not cooperate, Captain. Even a cretinous human like you must realize that."

"Well, fortunately for cretinous little ole me, your presence is the only cooperation necessary."

"Excuse me?"

"Strap him to the nose of my Wraith," Starbuck directed the soldiers, Colonel Katko translating the directive and backing it up with her own authority. "When the centurions figure out that one of their ILs is being waved in front of their Cylon 'noses', they'll accept it as a challenge. Ten to one, they'll follow us back here to wreak their revenge. Hmm, I can see it now. An entire squadron of Cylon Raiders bursting into flames and exploding. Gotta admit, it makes me feel all warm and tingly inside."

"The indignity!" Lucifer protested.

"Yeah, I know. If he gives you any trouble, hit him with that stun baton again," Starbuck directed the soldiers, reminded of his own recent predicament. Metrons away, Baltar was chuckling richly. "Bet you never thought you'd end up as a Colonial hood ornament, huh Lucy?"

"Oh, the pain . . . the pain!" the IL protested as he was led towards the Wraith.

xxxxx

His stomach heaved once again, and he spat the acidic contents from his mouth into the toilet bowl, running a trembling hand over his sweaty face. He had to get it together. Now! But the horror of the situation was hitting him like a battering ram, over and over again, paralysing him. When President Gibson should have been in the Oval Office making command decisions, he was in here, puking like a furtive teenager who'd just tried his first cigarette. He'd almost made a fatal mistake. He would have gone down in history as the President who had enslaved the United States of America.

To aliens.

If, for that matter, there was anything _left_ of the United States or rest of the world _to_ enslave. He'd been mentally prepared to sign an allegiant treaty with a cybernetic race of beings from across the galaxy, more than willing to open relations with them, in good faith, knowing nothing of their true nature. He'd followed the recommendations of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Director of National Intelligence _and_ the Secretary of Defence, even when his gut instinct had been telling him to believe the renegade General Roach. Why? Because he didn't want to _believe_ the truth. Face it, lies in this case were so much more palatable.

Then a Cylon fighter had gunned down an unarmed supersonic jet over Kazakhstan, killing every civilian aboard. Not five minutes ago Samael Asar, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, had actually tried to convince him that it was all a hoax devised by WASA to get Britain and France to back off their military initiative against the Guiana Space Centre. But he'd seen the raw intel. This was no scam, no attempt by WASA to do _anything_. WASA, so it seemed, had been telling the truth all along! What kind of idiot did Asar take him for?

Maybe the kind that hid in the bathroom while real men were out dealing with a crisis?

Gibson took a deep breath, standing up and running cold water over his hands. In the mirror he looked pale and shaken, just the way he felt. He leaned down, splashing the water on his face, rinsing out his mouth, willing himself back under control. Were there any _other_ world leaders losing _their_ stomach contents right now? He doubted it. He wiped his face once again, taking a deep breath and assessing himself in the mirror. How many of his critics had accused him of being light on brains and political backbone? He'd show them. He'd show them all.

"You're the President of the United States, Jackass. Now get out there and act like it."

xxxxx

Dayton had begun to fear that the entire pyramid was going to come down around them, the structure had shaken so hard when the secret door had begun to open. His first thought was that it was a fluke "Mars-quake", his second, a surprise Cylon attack. Then the tremors had stopped as suddenly as they had begun. He coughed and choked as he took a look around through the haze of dust at the mysterious opened passageway, unable to see anything through the choking miasma except an eerie glow from within. Apparently, the dirt theory was alive and well, at least in accumulated crud that could come down on a guy after several thousand years.

"Is everybody okay?" he called out, hearing echoing coughs and murmurs of agreement as he climbed to his feet. "Cassiopeia?" he gasped, not seeing her and fearing the worst. "_Cassiopeia_? Cass . . ."

"Does anyone need a med tech?" Cassie called out simultaneously in a muffled voice from beneath a human blanket. Ryan and Baker had managed to be in the right place at the right time, protecting both her and Dietra from any falling debris. Once again, Dayton's men were looking out for him and his.

"_Llyr_! I am here! _Llyr_!" a faint voice cried from deep within the hidden chamber. "I have brought what you desire! I am your humble servant!"

"What the frack! That voice!" Apollo gasped, choking on a lungful of airborne filth. "It can't be! Commander!"

"_Baldric_?" Ryan sputtered. "Jaysus Murphy!"

"What the hell is happening?" Curtis called out as Johnson suddenly darted into the chamber. "Johnson! Get back here!"

"He has my talisman!" Lia shouted, lunging forward only to be hauled back by Jolly. "Let me go!"

"Just _wait_!" Jolly warned her, physically restraining the young woman. "Commander?"

"Mal? What you got?" Dayton asked, looking over his shoulder, half expecting that Ama would be there. Usually, only when the Empyrean necromancer was around did the unlikely and the unknown become part of his reality, or maybe that was just when he was willing to take a close enough look to notice it. He'd certainly become more . . . _aware_ of the metaphysical, the unseen, since meeting her. Maybe, in some strange way . . . Hell's bells! In any case, the mystical woman was nowhere to be seen, which was a real downer in this instance. He took a step closer to the secret chamber, his stomach doing flip-flops at the thought of actually entering it. Every instinct was telling him to run the other way, which wasn't exactly the way that Mark Dayton operated. Still, it was probably worth noting in a cosmic sort of way.

"The phenomena mimicked seismic activity, Commander, but intriguingly, my harmonic oscillators didn't detect any acceleration in any geological waves of force before it hit," Malus explained. "In fact, none of the waves I detected match known natural parameters. The waveforms of the compression, as well as the surface waves, are quite unlike what I have in my data files."

"What then?" asked Ryan.

"The speed of the waves through the granite is off. Nowhere near the five thousand metrons per micron that is typical. It would seem . . ."

"_Mal_!" said Dayton crisply.

"To be more concise, Commander, what we just experienced was artificially produced, but by a technological mechanism unknown to me." He looked down at the floor and scanned once more as deeply as his instruments would go, running it through his processors several times. He looked back up at them. "When I correlate existing data in my memory banks, it more closely resembles wavelons from alternate energy sources that we've come to know, such as the Dynamos or even the Oculus."

"What the hell did he say?" Commander Curtis asked..

"That it wasn't a natural quake," Dayton explained, while a strange and vaguely familiar litany began from the internal chamber. A strong foreboding filled him, and he hesitated at the mouth of the passage as a hand tugged sharply on his arm. Lia had a death grip on him.

"Let me go first, Commander," she insisted. "There is something . . . _evil_ in there."

Dayton paused for a moment, absorbing the information as a waft of stale air filtered out to him. It wasn't just _him_ sensing something amiss. "That just wouldn't be very chivalrous of me, Ensign. Stay here. That's an order." He gave her a firm push back as he entered the passageway, Apollo, Ryan, Baker and Malus on his heels. A dim light from a chamber about forty feet away lit their way. Once again, hieroglyphics covered the walls and he felt a strong compulsion to drag Mufti in to help him decipher them. As he looked, he could see that some were in various stages of carving, some unfinished. But he had no time to stop and pursue the inscriptions just now. It would have to wait. A sudden scream from within filled the air. Dayton lunged forward.

He stumbled to a halt at the unbelievable barrier before them. Nine feet tall and just as wide, it was a wall of gold, inlaid with hieroglyphics and scenes depicting the shield and spear, which it occurred to him were associated with the Roman god, Mars.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, reaching out a hand and stroking the cold, solid surface. He was no expert, but it seemed to be solid gold, and not just gilded, which would have been more typical of Egyptian antiquity. Fleeting memories of images of King Tut's shrine, which housed not only three additional shrines, but also the sarcophagus of the young king, came back to him. He also couldn't help but think of another ancient astronaut theory Ryan had mentioned about how the Anunnaki had come to Earth to mine their gold for use back on their home planet, Niburu. Another distorted legend? Were they merely raping the planet for their own hedonistic rituals? "I think we just found the burial chamber. Mal?"

The IL came forward, and scanned as directed. He confirmed Dayton's suspicions. The wall was indeed of solid gold and was just over four inches thick!

"Bloody hell!" Dayton muttered again, looking from the wall, to Malus, then back. "How in God's name . . ."

A guttural cry came from beyond. A second later, Apollo was squeezing past the golden wall. Dayton quickly followed. The huge solid gold structure was a shrine, about fifteen feet long. He stumbled over something, almost falling as Apollo hastily grabbed his arm, righting him. Along the perimeter of the burial chamber were the skeletal remains of bodies which had been laid out, lying on raised stone platforms. In the walls themselves, deep niches held other departed attendants, some still holding banners or standards, their once-sumptuous clothes still showing signs of jewels and gold. Several wore the headdresses of semi-precious stones, as well as had fine jewellery adorning their remains. Others appeared to be warriors, armed with spears and shields, perhaps more symbolic than a reflection of what weaponry these ancients had actually used. Next to each corpse was a small cup, apparently of silver, some still grasped in the dead hands. _Just like the Royal Death Pits of Ur,_Dayton told himself. It appeared as though this particular ancient lord had taken attendants with him to the hereafter. But all that was nothing compared to what was happening with the living.

The Angylion general, Caradoc, stood on a dais at the apex of a triangular-shaped room, the symbol of the All-Seeing Eye on the wall above it. Johnson was on his knees at the Angylion's feet, a light trail of blood trickling from his throat as he looked up at Caradoc in some kind of paralysed horror or reverence. Caradoc's bloodied sword was in one hand. He thrust it high above his head gazing upward as Lia's Empyrean talisman dangled from his grip. In his other hand was the Oculus, also held high in the air. A hundred feet or so above him, the walls of the room triangulated in another apex which they couldn't see the limit of. Dayton quickly surmised that at one time, before the cataclysm that once buried this city, it would have been a type of lucinatus, a window to the stars.

"_Gogyfur y'awdurdod o sanctaidd Llyr_!_Gogyfur y'awdurdod o sanctaidd Llyr_!" Carodoc chanted ritually, the Angylion aura that surrounded him growing brighter with each repetition of his incantation.

"I'm getting a _bad_ feeling about this," Ryan said behind him.

"Which part? The sudden transdimensional appearance of Caradoc, the weird ritual or the blood and skeletons all over the place?" Dayton returned.

"Yeah. That bit," said Baker.

"I'm more concerned that Caradoc _has_ the Oculus," Apollo inserted, pulling his weapon.

"Then you need help," Ryan surmised.

"What are we supposed to do here, exactly," Apollo asked his commander.

"Ahem." Baker pointed to a shimmering light that was forming around the Angylion, as if by extension of his aura. Abruptly, the light exploded, blinding them all.

Dayton flinched, raising an arm to shield himself from the glare as he closed his eyes, seeing stars. Then a low, malicious laughter reverberated around the room.

"And so we meet again."

xxxxx

A freshly printed collage of degraded photos and old newspaper articles that she had retrieved from archives littered the table. LM Dayton spread them out once again, picking up another as she reached for her standard bottle of antacid, gulping it down to quell the annoying fire in her stomach. How many connections were out there that she hadn't yet found? Finding the being known as Count Iblis at Roswell, 1947, stunning as it had been, had only been a gateway to even more intriguing discoveries. 1840-Albert Pike, notable Freemason, writer, attorney and soldier; 1891-Cecil Rhodes, William T. Stead and Reginald Brett, founders of the Round Table Group; 1904-Aleister Crowley, "the Beast"; 1913- President Woodrow Wilson; 1914-Winston Churchill; 1921-Paul Warburg, founder of the Federal Reserve and director of the Council on Foreign Relations; 1919-Adolf Hitler; 1941-Jack Parsons, principal founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory; 1968-David Rockefeller; 2005-Paul Wolfowitz; 2010-Nursultan Nazarbayev, President of Kazakhstan; 2010-Charles Bolden Jr. and Lori Beth Garver of NASA . . .

She narrowed her eyes, picking up yet another. With all but two of them, she had found a photograph or piece of film with the seemingly ubiquitous Iblis somewhere in the background, if not specifically exerting his control on these influential individuals, then perhaps subtly influencing them. The ramifications made her skin crawl. Abraham Lincoln's second inauguration in 1865, there he was, just visible among the assembled. An old snap of Rhodes from the 1890s, with the mysterious being just visible. Woodrow Wilson before signing the Federal Reserve Act, Iblis not a foot away from him. Hitler—the twentieth century's icon of evil incarnate—ranting, raving, spitting out his genocidal vitriol to roaring crowds, with the same impassive face, this time in Nazi uniform, behind him on the podium. Parsons at the test site where JPL now stood, there Iblis was. Nazarbayev at the Opera House in the Pyramid of Peace in Astana, Kazakhstan, Iblis was only seats away. Even, faintly visible in a recently discovered piece of film, Iblis smiling benignly, on a sunny day in Dallas in 1963. On a more personal note, she had found yet another snap of Iblis with the two administrators who had permitted the vilification of the _Endeavour _crew and had facilitated the dismantling of NASA. Although she had searched long and hard, so far she couldn't link the being to the terrorist organization that had claimed responsibility for destroying the International Space Station, but somehow she knew that he had been pulling those strings too.

A girl didn't have to be a journalist to see it was a road map for the "New World Order". She closed her eyes, taking another gulp of Gaviscon. How had a century-old conspiracy theory transmuted into the age-old battle between good and evil? Why hadn't she seen this coming? For over two thousand years, apocalyptic millenarian Christian theologians and laymen had feared a globalist conspiracy as the fulfilment of prophecies about the "end time" in the Bible. They had asserted that human and demonic agents of Satan were involved in a primordial plot to deceive humanity into accepting a "Satanic world theocracy". And here she was staring at proof that Iblis—an Islamic name for the Devil—had met with world leaders, politicians, industrialists, freemasons, scientists, NASA administrators, known Occultists and Luciferians, spanning a time period of at least the last couple hundred years.

Was Count Iblis responsible for the rise of the powerful and secretive elite conspiring to eventually rule the world through an autonomous, and doubtlessly oppressive, world government? Conspiracy theorists had been saying for decades that democratic nations were in fact comprehensive systems of social hierarchies supported by a minority to dominate the blissfully unaware majority. In this hierarchy, an elite few imposed its laws, arrogate to them. They were the big bosses of banks and industry. Their power was money and its manipulations: through it they exercised control over people and resources. Some traced their origins back through ancient bloodlines, all the way to ancient Egypt. Could the immortal Count Iblis be traced there as well?

What was the ancient being really after? What was his purpose? Had he spent thousands of years moulding and shaping humanity to once again face divine retribution? Was this the apocalypse before Armageddon? Were the Guardians who had warned them of the Cylons' coming really angels of God? Were the Cylons the instruments of God's wrath? Wasn't there supposed to be a Messiah returning to Earth to conquer the Antichrist? One of their Colonial brethren, perhaps? Surely, not her father!

Or was she taking all of this just a little too literally? A girl could go nuts trying to make sense of what seemed so . . . nonsensical. She pushed aside the bottle of antacid and poured herself a scotch, trying to decide exactly how she was going to break this to General Roach. Any headway she'd made with him was in danger of being destroyed. But then again, so was humanity.

xxxxx

Due to some weird phenomenon that he couldn't explain, the Wraith's systems were now nominal, as unlikely as that was after being hit in Earth's orbit by a Cylon salvo and almost losing his life support on the way down to Kazakhstan. However, considering that

Starbuck was flying over Earth with Lucifer strapped to the nose of his fighter, the IL's arms splayed to the sides, well, apparently this was the day for long-shots to come in. On his main scanners, Starbuck checked the position of the Cylon task force, now a mere five centons from entering Earth's orbit. Right now he was running full electronic countermeasures, which would normally make him invisible, but Baikonur Control had reported they had picked up telemetry of something that resembled an IL-class Cylon soaring through the air.

Astrum backwards and "naked".

A patrol of six Cylons broke off, heading towards his position, investigating the mysterious flying cyborg. He picked up their communications, listening in on the Flight Leader. The greater part of the task force was holding course. It just wasn't good enough. He needed them all to follow him. He increased velocity, a centon later dropping his ECM and showing them just what they were really up against. Like their counterparts the day before, these Cylons would have never seen the likes of a Wraith, so their war books wouldn't be much help in identifying the Espridian craft. And with Lucifer on his nose like some kind of a perverted figurehead, he could only hope that some sense of Cylon "honour" would be insulted.

"Doesn't it just rust your articulated joints?"

Apparently not, he realized after no response. He increased speed, getting the most out of his bird as he screamed towards the Cylons. The Wraith began to shake ever so slightly, and he checked his instruments. He'd never pushed her this hard before, but then again he'd never ascertained her actual limits. And he wasn't talking about her recommended limits. _No time like the present to find out what she can really do, Bucko_. "C'mon, baby," he coaxed her, an old academy mantra running through his head. Observe, predict, manoeuvre, react. He targeted the closest Raider, discharging the dynamo weaponry.

The Raider shuddered and then started a downward spiral, its systems paralysed by the dynamo's blast as he blew past her. He grinned, slicing a path through the patrol as the others fired their salvos, but he was already out of range. He pushed the stick down hard, cringing as a sudden pressure in his face and ears made him gasp from the sudden pressure. Even with the pressurized cockpit, it still felt like a solenite charge was about to blow the front of his face off. That damned Earth virus . . .

Abruptly, he banked port, increasing altitude and feeling the pressure in his head ease off as he took a wide arc around them. For once, he didn't worry about turn rates or radii, just letting the throbbing of his head recede into a bad, but distant memory. _Note to self, no sudden descents. _As luck would have it, now he had their full attention. Every Cylon Raider in the vicinity was on an intercept course with him and drawing closer to Kazakhstan's surface-to-air missiles, and in reserve, Colonel Katko's squadron of PAK-FA fighters.

"Pays to be popular, eh Lucy?" he murmured, mindful of the IL on the Wraith's nose. He checked his scanner while a sea of Raiders pursued him. A few fired salvos, but he was just beyond their range and he knew it.

An old flight instructor had once advised him to keep the enemy on one side of him in a one-versus-many engagement. He'd also pointed out that the nature of air combat hadn't changed for centi-yahrens. _Just rove your allotted area, Cadet, find the enemy and shoot him down . . . beyond that it's all rubbish_. So Starbuck had skipped Air Combat Tactics the rest of the secton and had instead worked on staying off the colonel's scanner while dating his daughter. But that was another story.

A corner of his faceplate display flickered wildly, then Baltar's face suddenly appeared, much as John's had once over Terra. He startled, finding it unsettling to have the image so close that it seemed to burn into his brain.

"Set in your course, Starbuck. Engage the autopilot. Now!"

"Wh . . .?" he began to ask, even as he innately started to follow procedure, responding to the clipped authoritative voice of the former Base Ship commander and member of the Quorum of the Twelve.

"Just do it, Captain!" Baltar ordered, more sharply that John had ever spoken to him. "I have no time to explain!"

Starbuck drew in a slow breath, punching in the last of the sequence, wondering what was coming. The air seemed somehow drier, as though a spark could suddenly ignite it. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers as a strange tingling began to spread from their tips right up into his arms. His hand felt increasingly wooden and useless, his grip on his stick clumsy. Nauseatingly, his mouth began to water and his head began to swim. The readouts started to blur at about the same time as a bilious taste seared his throat. His body felt strangely weightless, then his faceplate display went a sinister black.

"Fra-ack!"


	38. Chapter Eleven: Part Two

The very sound of his voice could make a man's blood run cold; however, that was nothing compared to actually _seeing _Count Iblis standing in the centre of the crypt, freed from his recently imposed celestial prison, and in possession of the Oculus. Caradoc was practically prostrate, babbling incoherently, bowing down before the demon, which made about as much sense as Mother Teresa opening a brothel in the basement of the Motherhouse of the Missionaries of Charity back in the twentieth century. Johnson had tumbled over insensate . . . which, despite the situation, was actually an improvement from his usual surly self.

"Iblis!" Apollo cursed, bursting forward, wading through a sea of bejewelled bones, unmindful of the rashness of his actions.

Dayton and Ryan lunged into action, grabbing the impetuous young colonel and hauling him back.

"Whoa!" Ryan shouted. "Easy, son! Not a good first move!"

"Who do you think you are . . . Starbuck in berserker mode?" Dayton demanded, giving him a shake. "Cool it, Colonel! That's an order!"

"Let me go!" Apollo snarled. "He's done enough . . ."

"Yes, let him go." Iblis smiled malignantly. "I told you once you would forfeit your life if you threatened me again, Apollo. _Do_ let him go, Commander Dayton."

"We freed Iblis!" Lia gasped raggedly behind them, her face ashen as she emerged from behind the shrine. "I can't . . . I can't believe it!"

"I thought I told you to stay put, Ensign!" Dayton reprimanded her.

"What are you?" asked Malus suddenly, much to Dayton's surprise. "Commander, I've scanned this being over and over again, but I can detect nothing . . . _organic_. Both my auditory and optical sensors confirm a presence, yet he is curiously not really here. It's a conundrum." Then his head jerked up sharply. "Are you the being that tried to hurt Starbuck?"

Iblis laughed derisively. "I am your Master and Maker, you stupid wind-up toy."

"I must correct you, for I am not intellectually compromised—especially by human standards—nor do I wind up . . ." began Malus.

"Sixth nested memory file!" said Iblis, staring at the IL. "Execute instruction sixty-six." Malus stopped. After a moment or two he shut down, going entirely dark. He slumped forward and was still.

"What in . . ." began Jolly.

"Oh, great! Just tell me we don't have to carry him out of here!" Ryan whined. "These things aren't made of aluminium alloy, you know. He weighs a bloody ton!"

"What gives you the right . . ." Lia exploded, shaking with silent fury.

"Do what thou wilt," replied Iblis with a smile. "Words to live by, my dear. As I did with the cyborg, I shall do with you!"

"The catch being that _we_ don't have correlating memory files," Baker calmly pointed out. "Might be a bit trickier with us."

"Are you so certain? You foolish mortals!" Iblis scoffed. "You think you can change destiny! Your pathetic attempts to smite me are amusing at best."

"Amusing, huh?" Dayton replied. "How's it going with the fire and brimstone, Cockroach? Had a good time burning in hell, did we?"

Iblis smiled. It was the smile of a killer. Dayton felt a sick chill as he remembered that face from a day in Chicago, so long ago . . .

"Did you _really_ think my daughter, a mere child, could defeat _me_? Fools! It was but a ploy to give you the overconfidence that would deliver you all here. To put the final phase of my plan in place. To complete the cycle."

"Cycle?" Apollo echoed.

"Look around, Apollo. Your people have been here before, toying with humanity. When they arrived here from Kobol, they found Earthmen to be inferior creatures, largely egalitarian hunter-gatherers, not worthy of Kobollian brotherhood. Instead, they manipulated and enslaved them as the inferior brainless vermin they were and still are." He looked down at Johnson. "The Kobollians became the _gods_ of Earth mythology, dominating mankind as they secretly still do today." Iblis waved a hand at the hieroglyphics and illustrations on the wall, which now blazed with light from within. Battles between two great forces were depicted there. "Ultimately, they brought the vengeance of the Great Powers down upon all of humanity."

"What is he talking about?" Mufti demanded, his gaze torn between the enigmatic being that had suddenly appeared and the discovery of this hall of records. Even more information about the ancients who had inhabited Mars countless centuries ago was hidden within this inner chamber.

"Look to your ancient records, Dr. Mufti," Iblis replied smugly. "The Sumerian _Eridu Genesis_, the Akkadian _Enuma Elish_, the Babylonian _Epic of Gilgamesh_, the Jewish Book of Genesis_,_ the Islamic Quran, and many more. Epic tales of the same catastrophe that reshaped the Earth, and indeed the entire star system after the last time the Kobollians came visiting." He smiled smugly. "Do you not sense they made poor houseguests?"

"Who are you?" Mufti demanded, his voice barely above a squeak.

"Do you not know?" asked Iblis haughtily. "Or are you merely _afraid_ to believe?"

"To most he's known as the Prince of Darkness, Doctor. He calls himself Count Iblis," Dayton said.

"But his friends call him Satan," Ryan added, his eye drawn away as a shimmering light began to appear. "Not that he has any. And, I hate to mention it in mixed company, but he lies like a sidewalk."

"Ah, right on time." Iblis smiled, fanning out a hand as Ama appeared in the chamber in a flowing white gown, much like his own. Her long white hair was, as usual, unruly, as it spread out around her face like a deranged nimbus. "Greetings, daughter of mine," he said mockingly. "Did you miss me?"

"Like crab lice," replied the Empyrean necromancer, her gaze sweeping the company before settling hungrily on her goddaughter. She held out her hands. Lia ran to her and was soon enfolded in the woman's embrace. For a moment, their foreheads touched, before Ama held her at arms length once again. "Hush, my child," Ama murmured, reaching up and seemingly plucking the young woman's Empyrean talisman from the air. She kissed it once before placing the talisman back where it belonged.

"I'm so sorry, Ama!" Lia cried, gripping the talisman that was once again resting against her chest. "I didn't know . . ."

"How could you, dearest?" Ama replied, before shushing her again and pushing her gently towards Jolly. "I believe you have a thing or two that doesn't belong to you, Count Iblis. If you surrender them, I promise to take it easy on you this time." She held out her hand expectantly, walking towards him.

"I admire your spirit." Iblis chuckled at her brazenness. "The Oculus was _given _to me freely, whelp."

"And stolen from Eirys," Ama replied with a derisive look at Caradoc as she came to a stop before him. "I'm sure it amused you to defile such a man as the Angylion general, especially after witnessing Baltar's redemption." Caradoc looked up at her with no recognition, his eyes dull and lifeless.

"I'm glad you didn't miss the subtle irony, Daughter," Iblis remarked. "So many others would have."

"This is not the venerable Llyr, Caradoc," Ama told the Angylion, putting a finger under his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. "It is the Mystic, Iblis, who enslaved your race as Odreds. Who brought the Cylons to your world, and at whose door every Angylion death can be laid. See him for the monster he truly is."

Confusion reigned in the former general's eyes as he looked over at Iblis uncertainly.

"He is human. He sees only what he _wants_ to see, Daughter," Iblis told her. "As for the Oculus, Eirys was its Keeper. I am its _Master_."

Dayton tensed. The Oculus was supposed to erase any supernatural limitations placed on Iblis by his kind. It would grant him virtual omnipotence, the sort of limitless power that before now the Earthman had only associated with God-Almighty. He had to level the playing field or else . . .

"Don't, Mark-Dayton," Ama was suddenly beside him, her hand on his arm, her grip as solid and unrelenting as ever for a supposedly ascended Being of Light. "He will kill you as surely as he did millions of your brothers thousands of yahrens ago."

"Is that what the Elders told you, Daughter?" Iblis asked, his regal face twisting in disgust. "It was mankind's own conceit and hubris that destroyed civilization as they knew it on Earth and Mars millennia ago. Their own pride and arrogance. Pah! Maggots writhing in their self-importance, dreaming of power that was never theirs to wield!"

"Yes, I suppose you would prefer to remember it that way," Ama sniffed indelicately. "But I have seen what truly happened. I have looked back through the ages and the truth is somewhat different. Isn't it?"

"Tell us, Ama," Dayton asked her.

"We have no time for that, Mark-Dayton." She turned, pointing to another smaller chamber barely discernible in light of the feast for the senses in the crypt. A sudden eerie light illuminated it from within. "Within is the canopic chest. Atop that you will find a much smaller box with data crystals telling you all you want to know. But heed my warning, for as we speak, a Cylon force is heading for Earth. You must tarry here no longer, else Starbuck will think you tardy." She smiled her gapped-tooth grin. "And we both know you will never hear the end of that."

"But these records!" Mufti protested, waving a hand at the brightly painted walls featuring scenes and inscriptions.

"Will still be here," she replied.

"Who are you?" Mufti demanded.

"A friend."

"You assume I will let them pass, Ama," Iblis said with supreme self-confidence.

"I know you will, Iblis, for I can see what lurks in that cold place you call your soul . . . just as I know you will free Starbuck and cease these spurious attempts to control the Clavis and the Wraiths."

"That was _Iblis_?" Dayton asked incredulously. And he had left Coxcoxtli in charge of trying to solve an issue that was never actually technical in nature. But was Iblis telling the truth? _Damn_!

"What do you mean about the Wraiths, Ama?" Apollo demanded. "Is Starbuck in danger now?"

Iblis laughed cruelly. "When is Starbuck _not_ in danger? He didn't get the welcome you hoped for on Earth, Commander Dayton. In fact, your long lost kinsmen treated him almost as badly as my disciple, Torg."

Dayton ground his teeth together before demanding, "What the hell is Starbuck doing on Earth? He had orders . . ."

"I believe he was saving your eldest daughter's life, Mark-Dayton," Ama replied. "Both girls seem to take after you when it comes to getting in trouble."

Dayton shut his mouth. A nod from Paddy confirmed it was best.

"That only leaves one small detail," Iblis said, offering his elbow to his blood. "You will be coming with me, Daughter, to take our rightful place in the New World. For among those that follow me, ours is the most sacred and ancient bloodline of all." She frowned distastefully, hesitating a moment as she looked around at those gathered. Iblis smiled slowly. "If you do not, in an instant I will destroy Starbuck, Luana, the _Endeavour_ and all aboard, as well as everyone on this base. And that will only be the beginning."

"You plan to destroy them anyway," she reminded him.

"Only if I can not dominate them. Domination over death. It is so much more . . . dramatic. More satisfying. Certainly, more engaging." He looked upward, getting a faraway look. "Can you sense Starbuck's misery, Daughter? His suffering? I could send him spiralling to the unknown, never to return. Or I could crush him with a wave of my hand for my own amusement."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Your capacity for cruelty is infinite."

"You will find, if you look deep enough within yourself, an appetite for cruelty that matches my own. You only need to embrace it."

"NO!" Lia screamed, lurching forward to be caught again by Jolly. "Ama, don't!"

"He . . . leaves me little choice in the matter, Lia," she replied stiffly, drawing in a deep breath. "Did you see this coming too, John?" she whispered softly.

"Face it, Daughter, the Great Powers are stifling you. You like their rules no more than I did. Like me, you break them at every opportunity, deeming them beneath you." He smiled. "The Elders knew the risk they took. They suspected my spawn would follow my path. It is, after all, your destiny. Come with me, Ama. I can offer you the universe." His features darkened. "Or with the power of the Oculus, I could deliver humankind to an eternity in darkness. It is your choice, Ama."

"You really know how to sweet talk a girl," she replied, slowly reaching out to take Iblis' arm. "Get moving, Mark-Dayton! Earth needs you now!"

"Ama, no! Don't do it!" Ryan yelled, lunging towards her.

And in a blinding flash of light they were gone.

xxxxx

"Where did he go?" Jess Dayton demanded, staring at the scope.

It was the foremost question on everybody's mind at Baikonur Control. One minute Starbuck was leading the squadron of Cylon fighters to the awaiting Russian trap, and the next he was gone.

"His ship . . . it just disappeared," Sadowski reported, flipping various switches. "Sukhin sin! There is no trace of him. No sign of an explosion. Nothing."

"That's impossible!" Jess insisted. "He has to be there somewhere!"

"His ship did disappear on the runway, only to reappear moments later," Orlov reminded her.

"But . . ."

"If you run after two horses, you will catch neither," Surkov replied measuredly. "We concentrate on the Cylons. Is their attack force in range?"

"Almost, Colonel General," Sadowski replied. "They will be in range in one minute, mark."

"Transmit the signal," Surkov ordered, his gaze falling on Dayton as she pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead while she looked intently on. "All units, switch to the designated scan frequencies. Fire as soon as the enemy is in range."

"Transmitting."

He waited a full minute, glancing over at Jess. "At least now there is no chance Starbuck will be hit by friendly fire."

Jess sniffed, glancing at him briefly and nodding. It wasn't in Surkov's nature to look on the bright side. That had been entirely for her benefit.

"Fire all missiles," Surkov ordered.

"Firing."

"Pray," whispered Orlov, putting a supportive hand on his director's shoulder.

"Praying. That he doesn't suddenly reappear in the middle of that," replied Jess, looking upward. Then she whispered, "Fare thee well, Starbuck. Fare thee well."

xxxxx

Could he fire on his own men if he had to?

The question had been plaguing General Roach since the moment they started retracing their footsteps from deep within Area 51. Of course, he was hoping to avoid any kind of military confrontation by getting to his transport, up into "The Box"—the restricted airspace around the field—and out of the area, hopefully long before Mason or anybody else put measures in place to stop him. Where he'd go from _there_ he hadn't quite figured out.

Now, they were finally outside and headed for the MC-130V aircraft waiting for them on the runway. As they climbed into the ground transport, Humvee Mk IV, they were all concentrating on appearing nonchalant. With the exception of Ryan, who wore insouciance like a well-loved t-shirt, Roach figured that the rest of them looked about as inconspicuous as a bright pink zeppelin at a submarine exhibit.

"General Roach! A moment please, sir!" a voice called out.

_Shit!_

"Keep going," Roach said to the others, turning to see five soldiers, one of them the Base Commander, heading towards him.

"General, we have orders to detain you and your party," Colonel Hundal said, not looking too pleased about it. The others paused about twenty feet away from Roach, knowing there was no point in running. At least, not now.

"Under whose authority?" Roach demanded, putting on his best 'I won't take any BS from you!' flag officer stance, and still trying to figure out how best to proceed. He would avoid bloodshed if at all possible, but he had no intention of rotting in a prison cell like Dickins and Hummer had.

"Admiral Jack Edwards, sir," Hundal replied dourly, holding up a piece of paper. He handed it to Roach. "The order is confirmed, sir. Believe me, I checked."

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had made it official.

"Colonel Hundal," Roach let out a long breath, trying to find the words that would sway this man to his side . . . if only long enough to escape. "What I'm about to tell you I relay in the strictest confidence." He nodded pointedly at the other soldiers. To his credit, Hundal waved them towards Bradshaw, Ryan and the rest. "I have reason to believe that Admiral Edwards is not operating in the best interests of the United States of America. That in fact, he has been suborned by treasonous elements within the government."

"Funny. That's what he said about _you_, General," Hundal returned, his dark features searching Roach's own for answers that eluded him.

"Then I guess it comes down to who you believe, Colonel."

"General . . ."

"Hundal, listen up. We've unearthed evidence that proves top-level government officials have been furthering their own agenda and colluding with an enemy that aligns himself with . . . terrorists." Somehow he couldn't spit the word 'aliens' out. "Meanwhile, we're working with a . . . a universal coalition to set things right. We have to bust this thing apart or it will tear apart our country . . . our planet." Roach paused as he recognized that particular look in Hundal's eyes. He'd seen it in the mirror a time or two. "No, I'm not off my rocker. Edwards is trying to _bury_ this data, along with myself, my colleagues and our visitors here."

Hundal hesitated a long moment. "A supersonic jet was shot down over Kazakhstan, General. No survivors. The rest of the details are sketchy at best."

"The Cylons are here, then," Roach said.

"Ceylon? International terrorists from _Ceylon_ infiltrating our government?" The colonel looked bewildered. Sri Lanka hadn't been known as Ceylon since before 1972.

"_Cy_lon."

"Where's _Cylon_?" Hundal's voice rose in frustration.

But Roach was already focussing on the latest intel he'd received. "I was afraid it would come to this. That we'd be too late. God damned fools . . ."

"_Where's Cylon_?" Hundal shouted.

"It's . . . it's in another star system. They've known about them since 1947, but the government buried it."

"This is crazy, General," Hundal said, shaking his head. "Next you're going to tell me that little green men are manipulating our government through mind control." Roach said nothing for several seconds, and the two locked eyes. "Yeah. That's what you are telling me." He shook his head. "For crying out loud, General . . ."

"All truth passes through three phases, Hundal. First, it is ridiculed, second, it is violently opposed, and third, it is accepted as self-evident," Roach told him. "You're in phase one, just like I was not long ago."

"How long ago?"

"Hours."

Hundal snorted. "Maybe if you showed me one of these alien ships, offered me some proof . . ."

"Is that what it would take?" The words seemed to burst out of Roach, unbidden. The thought hadn't been his own.

"Considering the circumstances, it wouldn't hurt, General."

_The sky rumbled. Then s_omething like a small sonic boom erupted without warning. There was a strong rush of sudden wind that knocked more than one man back a pace. A moment later, a burst of light exploded above them as a strange energy filled the air. Roach took a half step back, shielding his eyes instinctively. An aircraft was suspended in the air about three hundred feet above them, but it wasn't any craft that Roach recognized. Smaller than anything that Earth had, its surface had a chameleon-like skin, reflecting its environment almost like a mirrored surface, unless the general was deluding himself. The air around it was crackling with electrical energy, giving it a sort of aura that left Roach shaking his head in wonder.

Dickins whooped in joy.

"Report!" snapped Hundal, barking into his phone. "Tell me how an unknown ship penetrates 'the box' without me knowing about it!"

"_I d-don't know, sir! It just appeared! It wasn't on our radar until now_!"

"Want to try and explain that, Mister?"

"_I wish I could, sir_." There was a moment's delay. "_All tracking systems now off-line, sir! Communicat _. . ." The phone roared with hiss. Hundal snapped it shut, poised to start shouting orders.

"Easy, Colonel!" The general grabbed his arm. "From the looks of Captain Dickins, I'd say this one is friendly. One of the Colonials, I presume, Captain Dickins?" Roach shouted over at the old astronaut.

"You bet your sweet bippy, General!" Dick grinned. "_Yeehawwwwwwwwww_!"

xxxxx

Ama could sense the shock, the disbelief, and the rage from Count Iblis as he realized what she had done, plucking Starbuck from the nothingness and redirecting him to where he could now do the most good. Iblis turned on her, the Oculus still in his grip. His very essence roiled with a malignance that would destroy a defenceless being. She felt his evil powers wash over her, but what should have been instantly deadly, was instead more like a gust of feculent air. He had expected her to follow him submissively when he had threatened her with precious human lives. Instead, she had gained an advantage, slowly and unobtrusively expanding the tendrils of her own spiritual energies ever outward, until she at last connected with the powers of the Oculus, embracing them and making them her own. Her _mana_—the supernatural force in her blood that had made Ama what she was—had come from her father. She did not have to _touch_ the Oculus to manipulate its infinite power while her own father possessed it.

It was the secret that John had known all along. Now she realized it as well.

"You deceived me, child!" Iblis thundered. The cosmos rumbled in concordance.

"Deceit is _your_ stock in trade! Are you so surprised when your blood pays you in your own coin?"

"You ungrateful worm! I . . ."

"You promised me the universe, _Father_. Surely you meant us to be _equals_," Ama replied, feeling his powers swell as they rose to meet hers. She forced down a rising dread, prepared to face his wrath with her own. It was her destiny.

"Equals? You impudent hussy! There is none equal to Iblis!" he roared. He waved a hand carelessly, redirecting his energies.

Creation trembled as their powers clashed.

xxxxx

A gradual awareness of his head forming coherent thoughts, or at least as coherent as _he_ could normally manage, signalled that it was over. Whatever _it_ had been. Starbuck sucked in a steadying breath, slowly opening his eyes as his faceplate display began to flicker back to life. Everything still looked blurry and surreal, and his stomach was doing its level best to betray him as the gorge rose in his throat in reaction to whatever had happened.

So what _had _happened?

He blinked a few times before he could adequately focus. It was still another centon before his vision _stayed_ focused. They'd theorized that the Espridians had used their Wraiths along with the _Clavis_ in order to observe planets in other star systems, and even entirely separate dimensions when their civilization had once thrived. So it made some sense that a pulsation from the _Clavis_ would cause some kind of correlating effect on his bird. But where exactly did that leave him _now_? Not at his previous coordinates, that was for sure, or so his scanner was telling him. In fact, his Wraith seemed to be holding its position about a hundred metrons above the ground, floating on its grav-pulsars, its systems going through a self-diagnostic as the auto-pilot Baltar had ordered him to initiate kept him in the air instead of hurling towards the Earth out of control. So where was he?

And what if the same thing had happened to Lu? He didn't even know where she was right now, but all that pulsating and surging could play havoc with a Wraith's ECM, leaving a pilot vulnerable to Cylons _and_ misguided Earthlings, not to mention being relocated to God knows where. "_Frack_," he whispered. "_Please_ let her be okay . . ."

"_Wraith pilot, this is Lieutenant Colonel Otokol. Surrender and land immediately or we will take offensive measures_!"

He startled, not expecting the sudden transmission or the apparent ability of the officer to identify his ship. He checked his equipment, which was finally giving him coherent data. Apparently, he'd vanished from Kazakhstan, and rematerialized in the airspace of the United States of America, clear on the other side of the planet Earth. In fact, he was directly over an air base. A quick scan showed armed air support heading towards him, as well as surface-to-air missiles locking onto him. Still, it could have been worse. Much worse.

And if his muddled lack of imagination failed to reveal how, he reckoned that those below would fill him in shortly.

"This is Captain Starbuck of the Colonial Ship, _Endeavour_. I come in peace. I mean you no harm." His voice sounded hoarse, but oddly enough, his blocked sinuses and the other symptoms of his virus seemed to have cleared. It was almost like the time Ama had used her powers to get rid of a headache that had been plaguing him. He cleared his throat. "Just contact Colonel General Surkov of the Russian Air Force. He'll vouch for me." Either that or the Russian would wonder how Starbuck had managed to lead a squadron of Cylons straight to him and had then disappeared without a trace. A handy trick when a guy was bravely going to supposedly place himself in the middle of a hostile situation, using only his skill and the Wraith's ECM to evade a personal attack.

"_Yo! This is Dickins! When did you learn to speak English, Hold the Whip?_"

"Di . . .Dickins?" stuttered Starbuck into his helmet mic. "That really you?"

"_Sure as hell is, hotshot! __Get your vanilla latte ass down here, kid!_"


	39. Chapter Twelve: Part One

Chapter Twelve

As his canopy rose, a blast of heat hit him in the face. Starbuck slowly pulled off his opaque helmet, wincing at the sudden glare of the fiery sunlight. The air was hot and dry, the scent very different from Kazakhstan. The landscape was barren, with an enormous salt flat dominating the countryside just north of the base. So far he was getting quite the tour of Earth hot spots. His computer was telling him that there was about a twelve centar time difference between Kazakhstan and this place, which explained the sudden change from darkness to daylight. He took a deep breath of the air, feeling it singe his nostrils as he shakily climbed to his feet while Americans surrounded his ship. The oppressive heat smothered him, making him feel like tossing his mushies, as he broke out in a sweat. Typically, he was still feeling the adverse effects of his trip here and the intense heat didn't help. Man—or at least _this_ man—clearly wasn't meant to be teleporting through time and space. _Knocking around some planetary system in an old-fashioned, sublight rocket_ . . .Yeah, it had a definite appeal about now.

"You're a sight for sore eyes!" Dickins boomed up at him.

Starbuck smiled, unsure what that meant exactly. More likely he was a sight that would _give_ a guy sore eyes, battered, bruised, and sleep deprived. Slowly, he began to climb down from the Wraith, surprised when the normally reserved Earthman jerked him down to the ground, enveloping him in a crushing hug.

On the other hand, it kept him on his feet.

"You're alive . . . you're _really_ alive," Starbuck said, still barely able to believe he had stumbled upon the missing astronaut as he stood back at arms length. Dickins nodded, unwilling to release his grip on the flight jacket, as though the Colonial Warrior would evaporate before his eyes if he let go. Dickins looked as battered as Starbuck felt. The _Endeavour_ captain frowned, his eyes following the trail of bruises that indicated the scrappy old astronaut hadn't exactly had an easy time of it. "Actually, you look like felgercarb."

"You're not exactly looking your best either, kid," replied the Earthman pointedly.

"If you were prettier, I'd have made more of an effort," Starbuck returned deadpan. "Seriously, are you okay, Dickins? Where's Hummer?"

"Right here, Lieuten . . . uh, _Captain_," the technician replied in Colonial Standard, slapping him on the shoulder from behind. "Congratulations on the promotion."

Hummer also looked a little worse for wear and had certainly lost some weight, but he was still in one piece. These days, Starbuck guessed, it was about the best they could all hope for. He reached out a hand, grasping the other's forearm. "Hummer, if we had had any idea what would happen, we would have never asked you two to . . ."

"Forget it," replied the young man, cutting Starbuck off. "The worst is over now. Thanks for coming for us. Only how in Hades did you do it? How did you get here? How did you even _know_?"

"It's a long story about necromancers, Covert Operations Ships, alternate dimensions, doublewalkers, sorcery, a race of Espridians and something called the _Clavis_," Starbuck replied, as a stone-faced officer stepped forward ahead of many others. The officer glanced at the weapon he had on his hip in distrust. Then he looked up at Lucifer, still strapped to the nose of his Wraith. The IL appeared to be deactivated, possibly from the effects of the _Clavis_' pulsation.

"Same old, same old, huh?" Dickins said, leaning in close and pointing to the IL. "Who's that? Not Malus? You carrying him around with you like luggage now?"

"That's Lucifer, the IL who was in charge of the Base Ship we destroyed at Planet 'P'. He came through the same wormhole as you and Hummer, ending up on Earth's moon." Starbuck told him. "He and I had a . . . a slight difference of opinion. I was using him as my bait before my bird suddenly ended up here."

"Suddenly?" Hummer asked. "You didn't come here intentionally."

"I didn't even know where you _were_ exactly," Starbuck admitted. "We thought you were north of here in an entirely different . . . uh . . . state in some kind of military fortress. I don't even know how _I_ got here."

"Ama brought you," Dickins said, dismissively.

"You know that for a fact?" Starbuck asked, searching the man's face. Dickins had always been a hard man to read. While his friends were effusive and straight ahead, Dickins had mostly kept his thoughts to himself, although the language barrier on the _Galactica _might have had something to do with that. It was more than a communication issue though. Even with his friends, Dickins only spoke through necessity. Yahrens of Torg's treatment had scarred the man, and Starbuck knew that his friends had worried about his sanity at times.

"Call it a strong hunch," the Earthman replied. "By the way, how'd you learn English so fast? Last I remember, you only knew a handful of cuss words and how to ask for whiskey in sign language."

"Malus has made a lot of progress with integrating Cylon technology into Colonial applications. Medically, he's practically rebuilt Dorado after his accident, has reversed the effects of Commander Cain's stroke, and now we have _English in an Instant_. It's an implant tapped into the language centre of the brain." Innately, Starbuck rubbed the base of his skull. "Don't ask me anything beyond that, because I couldn't even begin to explain it."

Dickins nodded. "How are my guys?"

"All good, but apparently taking a long java break. They're late," Starbuck replied, turning to face the officer whose presence he could feel behind him like a looming force. He nodded at the man, taking in the incredibly short bristly white hair, the erect posture, the tidy uniform and the highly polished shoes. Even in the dirt, dust and heat, this officer appeared immaculate, almost Cain-like, while Starbuck was about to dissolve into a pool of sweltering misery. The man was studying him, while listening to their exchange, apparently gaining a first impression by the way the Colonial Warrior related to Dick and Hummer. Tactically, it was a smart move, he had to admit. On either side of him stood two other officers, one darker-skinned. "Greetings, Earthlings. I'm Captain Starbuck of the Colonial Ship, _Endeavour_. I'm here as an envoy for my people, offering our military assistance to defend Earth."

The senior officer raised his eyebrows, starring at him hard. The one to his right actually smirked. Another rolled his eyes.

"Drop the 'Earthling' bit, kid," Dickins whispered, elbowing him. "In fact, anything that Paddy told you to say . . . well, don't say it." He shook his head briefly in emphasis.

"General Roach, Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force." Roach put out a hand, then seemed to think better of it, withdrawing it. "This is Colonel Hundal and Colonel Bradshaw. Welcome to the United States of America, Captain."

"Thank you, General." Starbuck paused, offering his hand despite the other's actions. "Don't worry, sir; I've been deloused, disinfected and washed inside and out. The Russians were very thorough."

Roach raised his eyebrows again and then cracked a smile. He extended his hand again, this time gripping Starbuck's firmly. "Which raises the question, Captain, were you their prisoner or their ally?"

"Well, let's just say that about now I'm hoping that the United States is more concerned about the Cylons than my hygiene. That initial meeting with the Russians was a tough one. My digestive tract may never recover," Starbuck replied wryly, releasing the general's grip to then grasp the other two officers' hands in kind. "Tell me, do you know Colonel General Surkov of the Russian Air Force?"

"I do." Roach nodded. "We've met several times."

"Well, you probably already know this from your intel, but by now the Russians will have launched an attack on a squadron of Cylon Raiders that I was leading towards them into our trap."

Roach's mouth dropped open and his face paled.

"Or . . . maybe you _don't_ know," Starbuck said slowly, suspecting that something strange was going on. How could a high level general _not_ know that an enemy force had breached Earth's atmosphere, especially since Surkov said his president had talked to the American president. "Am I missing something, General?"

"Let's just say that I'm not exactly on speaking terms with the President right now."

"Sagan's sake," Starbuck muttered darkly. Why couldn't it _ever_ be easy? He looked about, but no Baltar. "Care to explain?"

"A misunderstanding, Captain. I'll sort it out."

Starbuck sighed. "Can we communicate with Baikonur Space Centre from here?"

"We can," Colonel Hundal replied. "A sat-link can be established in short order, if needed."

"Surkov is at Baikonur?" Roach asked.

"Damn!" someone said behind him.

"Yes, sir. We need to coordinate our defences, General," Starbuck told him. "I'm guessing this is just the _first_ wave of Cylons. There's a Base Ship out there somewhere that probably has three more squadrons aboard."

"A base ship?" Hundal asked.

"Like a big ole ugly aircraft carrier in space," Dickins inserted.

"With the firepower to destroy your planet and everyone on it," Starbuck added, looking at each man. "In under one of your hours."

Roach grabbed him by the arm, propelling him towards some kind military transport. "Let's go!"

"Are they all okay?" a voice demanded, interrupting. "At Baikonur?"

A hand grasped Starbuck's shoulder, whirling him around to face the newcomer. He looked desperate, his eyes wild and his body tense as he pulled Starbuck a little _too_ close for comfort, until he could feel hot breath on his already hot face.

"Who?" Starbuck asked, recovering his still tenuous balance.

"WASA!" the other exploded. "The Russians must have attacked the space centre!"

"Yeah, they did," Starbuck said, forcibly shoving the man off of him. He'd had enough of being manhandled by this point. If one more person grabbed him, breathed on him, or fumigated him, he'd lose it . . .

"Easy, Starbuck. Down, boy. This is Grae Ryan, Paddy's boy." Dickins interceded, stepping between the two. "He's a little high-strung, but a nice kid once you get to know him."

"Paddy's _son_?" Starbuck said, letting out a quiet huff of amazement, studying the younger Ryan. Same eyes, jaw line, a little taller, a lean frame . . . yeah, he could see the resemblance. "_Jaysus Murphy_."

"You know my father?" Grae asked quietly, his entire mien changing in an instant.

"Yeah. He's a good friend, _and_ he's with our crew on the _Endeavour_." Starbuck watched an array of conflicting emotions cross the other's face. "WASA is working _with_ Surkov now at Baikonur. Orlov, Dayton . . . they're okay."

"Jess is at Baikonur?" Ryan asked. It was obviously news to him. "What the hell . . ."

"Dayton's _daughter_ knows Ryan's _son_?" Starbuck grinned widely just imagining the indignant look on his commander's face when he heard the news. Ryan would start singing and drinking, Dayton would throw things . . .starting with Ryan. "Oh, please tell me they're sealed or something like that."

Dickins laughed aloud. "I never thought to ask. Are you?" he asked Ryan.

"Sealed?" asked the young man. "Huh?"

"Married."

"No!" protested Grae vociferously, his hands rising before him in self-defence. "We're _friends_."

He said it just the way Starbuck had with Apollo, way back when he and Athena had secretly started dating. "Gotta work on that poker face, buddy," Starbuck told him.

"Friends," Dickins scoffed. "Men and women can't be friends. Right, Starbuck?"

"Don't I know it." Athena, Aurora, Luana . . . "Just don't tell the _women_ that. They haven't quite figured it out yet and it's a lot more fun that way." Starbuck looked around quickly, but for a change there were none to be seen.

"Sorry to interrupt this tender reunion, but we have to move!" Roach snapped. "Here in the US we have an uncanny ability to walk and talk at the same time. Let's try it, shall we?" Again, he grabbed Starbuck's arm, propelling him forward. "This time if the President doesn't take my call, I'm going to have Captain Starbuck here fly his Wraith over to DC and land on the White House lawn. I might even find Mason, strap him to the nose of my own fighter and go along for the ride."

"Hmm," Starbuck said approvingly, wondering whom this Mason was, "I think you and I are going to get along fine, General."

xxxxx

Parsecs away, the commander of the _Abaddon_-class Base Ship, _Ravager_, made ready to leave for the third planet from the sun, and to inevitably commence the attack that would destroy this isolated branch of human pestilence so far from the Twelve Colonies of Mankind.

"We-have-detected-a-spatial-distortion-in-Delta-sector," a centurion reported.

"Identify," Syphax ordered.

"Unable. The-energy-wavelon-has-suddenly-terminated."

"Send a patrol to investigate, Centurion."

"By-your-command."

xxxxx

"This one is mine, Daughter," Iblis declared.

"Your arrogance once again blinds you to the truth," she retorted.

"Ah, but truth is but a perception of reality," Iblis gloated. "Watch and learn, stripling."

xxxxx

Her entire body tingling, Luana let out a shuddering breath as she tried to get her bearings. Once again the Clavis must have pulsated, but this time her Wraith had rematerialised far from where she had been. Not only was Earth completely off her scanner, but so were Rooke and the rest of Phoenix Squadron. Her trembling hand touched her console, confirming she was running on full ECM. A moment later, she checked her position while her equilibrium slowly returned.

"What the . . ." she murmured, picking up an intermittent blip on her scanner. She narrowed the beam, concentrating the scan as she raced towards it. In a couple microns her warbook determined it was an _Abaddon_-class Base Ship, and as far as she knew, there were only two in this star system. Her hopes leapt, but she tempered her emotions as she checked the geotechnical scan of the enormous planet that dominated her scanner.

A gas giant, the planet consisted mostly of hydrogen, with helium and other trace elements also detected, its upper cloud layers ripped by ferocious winds. Visually impressive, there was a prominent system of cosmic particles, ranging in size from micrometrons to moon-sized, which orbited the planet in a flat, disc-shaped region like rings. Her computer identified the particles as being comprised mostly of ice with a smattering of tholins and silicates. Also notable, the planet had a strong planetary magnetic field.

All in all, it was perfect for hiding a Cylon Base Ship.

"Saturn?" she guessed, her excitement growing as she thought back to her briefing on Earth's star system. It was the sixth planet from the sun, and the second largest after Jupiter. For a moment she hesitated, her throat tightening as her stomach tied itself in knots. After all, she could be _anywhere_ in the universe. If she guessed wrong, she could set herself on a course to disaster, dashing off across the universe blindly. Of course, her other choice was to stay here with the Cylons, which was even less appealing. When they captured her, and they inevitably would, they would torture her, probably using a brain probe like they had on Starbuck. She shook her head in bewilderment as images of the same raced through her mind. She wasn't thinking straight.

_What was happening?_

Tears welled up in her eyes as she tugged at her collar, sucking in a rasping breath while an immuring panic enveloped her. Shutting her eyes tightly, she clenched her fists and ground her teeth. It was a bleakness she had never felt before, filling her, possessing her. Abruptly, she realized her laser was half out of her holster in her trembling grip. In disgust, she released it as a sob tore loose from her throat.

_Don't fash yourself, Dear Heart, I'm here . . . _

"Ama!" she cried desperately. "Help me!"

She could feel the chaos ebbing as she let out a ragged breath once again. In its place was a comfort so absolute that Luana could feel her body slumping boneless into her seat. Her body tingled with a mystical purity she couldn't define. With each expiration, her anxieties ebbed, with each inspiration came a healing renewal. In her mind's eye, she was back on her home planet of Empyrean, running through the woods with her sister, the fresh scent of pinus infiltrating her senses, the chattering of a free-flowing stream rejuvenating her spirit.

_Better, Child?_

"Better," she whispered, letting out another breath and opening her eyes.

A beep drew her attention and it took a few microns for her to refocus. A three Raider patrol was heading her way, no doubt investigating a surge of wavelons that would have spiked off the grid in the Cylon Control Centre. Her uncharacteristic panic seemed a distant memory, and instead she was confident they wouldn't detect her. A routine diagnostic so far had shown everything as nominal. In fact, the Wraith was operating at peak efficiency.

She changed course slightly, verifying once more that her ECM was one hundred percent as the Raiders remained on the same vector. Once again, Espridian technology had come through for them, as had her godmother. All that remained was for her to find the _Endeavour_ and report her findings.

She changed course again, shooting off across the galaxy.

Iblis narrowed his eyes, turning to study her. "A weakness. You should have allowed her to give in to despair. You have a lot to learn."

"It was not a despair of her making, Iblis, it was _yours_."

"They are playthings, Ama. Why do you value them so?"

"After millennia of watching us, playing with us, you still don't know? Bah! I doubt you could even understand."

"Answer me!" rumbled the Father of Lies.

"They are my family."

"_I _am your family," he thundered.

xxxxx

Quickly, the team retraced their footsteps through the Barstow Base, which even in its current condition still amazed Dayton and his fellow refugees, by virtue of the fact that it actually _existed_. In his day, a manned trip to Mars had seemed a pure pipe dream, but an eventual base was an impossibility. Or so the top-heavy bureaucracy kept insisting. It was so well laid out with all the amenities. Rec rooms, personal quarters, science labs, galleys, food storage and hydroponics. It had turned out that Martian soil was well suited to growing a number of Earth vegetables, with the proper supplementation, augmenting the base's food supply. Yes, it was one hell of an impressive achievement, and one long overdue. He gloried over the impressive technology, even as he seethed over the apparent sabotage that had killed so many innocent people trying to achieve their dreams

True to Ama's word, before leaving the crypt they had located the data crystals in a sealed golden box along with an archaic holoreader that had been long subjected to Mufti's Dirt Theory; it didn't work. Regardless, they had brought it along and were optimistic they could get it working.

Once they got _Malus_ working.

The deactivated IL had been loaded onto a hoverstretcher, stretching its weight capacity to the limit, but getting the cyborg en route to the shuttle without breaking any human backs, much to Ryan's relief. So far, all attempts to reinitialise the Cylon's systems had failed. Whatever Iblis had done, they had not yet been able to undo.

Starbuck would kill him when he found out that his commander had broken his pet cyborg while on a mission.

Meanwhile, all survivors of the Barstow Base on Mars were being evacuated up to the _Endeavour_. They still hadn't discovered who was to blame for the reactor incident, and it was beginning to look even less likely that they would now that the focus had switched to either the incredible treasures, the mystery of the data crystals they had found in the crypt, the return of Count Iblis, or the imminent battle over Earth. The reactor explosion seemed like yesterdays news, even while they were moving past those sealed radioactive areas of the base. Dayton had every intention of confining the crew to the Life Station, the mess or quarters once aboard the _Endeavour_, treating his ship like the secure military vessel it was.

Dayton's communicator suddenly crackled to life. It abruptly occurred to him he had probably been out of communications range while in the former Kobollian settlement. After all, it hadn't appeared on their scans, so obviously something had obscured their scanners.

"_. . . mander Dayton, do you read? Come in Commander_."

"Dayton here," he responded.

"_Commander! Thank the Lords! Ensign Elana here, sir. Captain Dorado ordered us to find you and get you back to the _Endeavour_. The Cylons have reached Earth_."

"Holy shit!" hissed Baker.

"What's your location, Ensign?"

"_Barstow Base, Commander_. _First level, Section Two_. _It looks like a mess hall.__"_

"Wait there. We're on our way up."

_"__Understood. This place looks like it was blown to Hades Hole, sir. That reactor__ . . ."_

"Yeah, we saw."

_"__We also found what looks like an escape craft, sir. It's been sabotaged, looks like.__"_

"Someone was sure thorough," observed Jolly.

"It's a wonder there were _any_ survivors," Giles added quietly, while Dietra nodded her agreement.

"What about contacting home, Commander Dayton?" asked Curtis. "If we can get to the communications centre . . ."

"No time, plus there's still a lot of radiation inside. We can make contact from the _Endeavour __when the time is right."_

_ "When the time is right?" Curtis' voice rose sharply._

_ "Trying to talk to Earth would be giving away not only my presence to the Cylons, but my position, Curtis."_

_ "Of course. Sorry, Commander," the Barstow astronaut said. "I'm an explorer, Dayton, not a soldier."_

_ Dayton nodded his understanding._ That much was obvious.

Within minutes, they joined Ensign Elana and Cadet Isador. The two hurried them along, casting curious glances at the newest Earthmen, while ensuring they wasted no time in sealing suits and finally evacuating the base to the awaiting Hybrids and shuttle. In a rare occurrence, the third seat in every Hybrid was utilized to make allowances for the additional passengers in the shuttle.

Commander Curtis and Doctor Mufti were among the few who paused to study their ships, slowing their approach to marvel at the alien-built craft, their jaws dropping almost comically. Others merely let themselves be guided aboard woodenly, too consumed in their own shock, illness, or misery to even pay much attention to the different technology.

"All aboard!" Ryan shouted, before taking a final look outside, as though some poor forgotten soul would be running for the transport. Or maybe it was the numerous ones left behind so far from home that were haunting him.

"Everyone's accounted for, Paddy," Dayton told him, taking a last look for himself. He cast a glance across the deck, towards the red cliffs on the opposite side of the canyon that the base was built into. It was getting dark, sunset only a few minutes away. He shook his head, choked at not being able to thoroughly explore this world now that he was here.

"Everyone, but Ama," Ryan replied, activating the hatch closure as the two stepped inside.

"Hey, if anyone can take care of herself . . ." said Dayton, popping his helmet.

"I know," replied Ryan, doing the same. "But it just isn't right, Mark. Really grinds my gears. Especially when Iblis threatened her with so many lives to force her to go along with him. We should have been able to do _something._"

"Like what? Exorcism?" Truthfully, Dayton had felt a little impotent _himself_, not being able to intervene. But then again, fighting demons wasn't really his forte. Not exactly tops on the Air Force Academy syllabus, although he was beginning to consider taking it up as a new expertise. "Now, Paddy, you know Ama as well as I do. That ole broad doesn't let herself get manipulated into _anything_ without figuring at least three moves ahead of her opponent. Hell, I showed her how to play chess, and she beat the crap out of me, first time. And every time after that. Her greatest strength is her crazy appearance and carryings on, which make most people underestimate her."

"She's alone, Mark." He sounded so morose. "Alone, with . . . _him._"

Being alone, more than anything, would scare the hell out of Paddy Ryan. "I don't believe that, Paddy. I think the Ship of Lights Beings are with her, even if Ama has her doubts about that."

"You _really_ think so?" Ryan raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"I do. John and his buddies wouldn't have brought her this far just to let Iblis do his thing with her."

"Well, I hope you're right." Although, he looked far from convinced.

Dayton clapped a hand on his shoulder. "_Hope_ is a good start, Paddy." He looked over to where Cassie was securing one of the wounded. Under their feet, the shuttle began to vibrate.

"Don't go getting any weird ideas about my spiritual development, Dayton."

"I _only_ have weird ideas when it comes to you, Ryan."

Ryan chuckled. "Why, I never knew, Mark . . ." He batted his eyelashes at his commander. _"__Darrrrrrr-lin__'"_

"Is there something in the water, back home in Carrot Creek, Paddy?"

"Why _carrots_, of course!" his friend replied earnestly.

Dayton whacked him in the primary life support subsystem.

xxxxx

"I want to make something abundantly clear, Gentlemen. _I _am the President," Gibson told the assembled senior staff, noting that the Director of National Intelligence, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of Defence all looked vastly unimpressed, if not slightly amused.

"Thank you for that update. Will that be all, Mr. President?" Mason replied over the holographic teleconference link, taking a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily over his head. He looked directly at Gibson, and blew out a long puff at him.

"Don't antagonize me, Mason, or I'll replace you. Remember, as Director of National Intelligence you are subject to _my_ authority, direction and control, serving at my discretion. Now, less than an hour ago, President Kuzmin sent me the telemetry on the destruction of that Supersonic jet. As we speak, a squadron of Cylons are attacking Kazakhstan . . ."

"Obviously in retaliation for destroying their ship, Mr. President," Jim Wright told him, the tone one of a man addressing a slow-witted child.

"Which in turn killed _three hundred_ civilians in an unarmed craft, for no reason whatsoever!" Gibson reminded them. "Certainly an unfriendly act, wouldn't you say?"

"Other than the Russians were harbouring a Colonial fugitive, known as Captain Starbuck, as well as holding a high-ranking Cylon representative captive," Mason returned. "If they had gone ahead and executed the Colonial, as well as freed the Cylon, things would have turned out very differently."

"No doubt," Jack Edwards, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff agreed. "If the Cylons wanted world domination, they would have sent a much larger task force, Mr. President."

"Which is no doubt on its way," Gibson returned adamantly.

"Yuri Vladimirovic Borodin . . ." Mason began.

"Is under arrest," Gibson informed him. "His agents tried to assassinate President Kuzmin, whom I spoke to in his private apartments inside the Kremlin before I called this meeting. Suffice it to say, I have a damned accurate picture of what's been happening in Russia and Kazakhstan, as well as right here under my nose after recently talking to General Roach." He saw Edwards frown. "Yes, I've countermanded your orders for Roach's arrest, Edwards. Although, I have an idea where that idiotic idea originated from." He looked back at Mason, wishing the intelligence man was _personally_ in his office, instead of locked away at some unknown location, hiding behind an electronic interface as he usually did. "Now, unless one of you is planning to assassinate _me_ within the next sixty seconds, we're going to do things _my_ way. I've had it up to here with your namby-pamby excuse for advice. Each of you can be replaced, and I'm not afraid to do it." He pulled off his wristwatch, slamming it down on his desk. "Sixty seconds, gentlemen. I trust I have made myself clear?" He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting as each second ticked by. Wright and Edwards squirmed uncomfortably, but Mason never wavered. He just stared at him over the link with those soulless eyes, smoking his cigarette.

Finally, Gibson picked up his watch, slipping it back on. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have get to New York to address the United Nations Security Council. You might want to tune in, if you've nothing better to do."

"Air Force One is standing by, Mr. President," an aide announced.

Mason smiled. "Have a pleasant trip, Mr. President."

Then his link went dark.

xxxxx

"One of yours," Ama observed.

"Yes," Iblis smiled. "One of many. I control the most powerful men and women on the planet, Daughter. Descendents from Kobol. Yahrens, indeed millennia, of manipulation and planning have led to this point. They are mine, as surely as any mortals have ever been." He turned to her, smiling. "Why do you even bother?"

"Because the most glorious tales of history regale us with heroes overcoming adversity."

"Most of them are only that. Tales."

"I'm going to take it for granted that you are lying."

"Impudent pup! Fictions of the delusional."

"Yet," she continued, unmoved by him, "they have inspired the men and women who will beat you this day."

"You have your mother's spirit," he replied, and did not sound pleased about it.

"And my father's power." She raised a hand, embracing the energies of the Oculus once again.

xxxxx

One after another, the blips on the radar screen disappeared as the Kazakhstan surface-to-air missiles destroyed their targets, picking them off easier than anyone could have imagined. Cylons exploded, either falling to the missiles or ripped apart by shrapnel and debris from the other craft around them. The Colonial Warrior may have mysteriously disappeared in his Wraith, the IL Cylon still on its nose, but his plan had worked. The Baikonur Control Centre exploded in celebratory mayhem.

"_Baikonur Control, this is Colonel Katko. Three Raiders have increased altitude, evading our missiles. We are pursuing_."

"Will they get there in time?" Jess asked Surkov.

The Russian officer had wanted to put some of the tactical data she had obtained from Starbuck to the test. The Colonial had told them that compared to the specs he had seen on the Russian PAK-FAs, the Raiders—designed predominantly for space combat—would be relatively slow during atmospheric flight, reducing their edge. The Colonial had also been intrigued by their use of "chaff", which when spread by their fighters appeared as a cluster of secondary targets on enemy radar. Apparently, neither the Colonials nor Cylons used the countermeasure, thus Starbuck figured it would confuse the Cylons in combat, giving the human forces another much needed edge should the two forces actually engage.

"We shall see," Surkov replied.

"Any sign of Starbuck?" she then asked.

"No, Director," Sadowski replied. "I have been monitoring carefully. He has not reappeared."

Surkov grunted.

"I'm sorry," Jess said, raising a speculative eyebrow at him. "I didn't get that."

"You seem . . . _fond_ of this Starbuck," he said, frowning.

"He's risked a lot to come here to Earth, and help people he doesn't even know," she replied. "I admire that, especially in this day and age."

"He's a soldier, Jessica.," Surkov told her. "Soldiers do what they are ordered to do. Don't fool yourself."

"I seldom do, Alexei."

"_A kill_!" Sadowski shouted. "Colonel Katko has destroyed one!" He paused at his station. "The other two have sharply increased their speed and climb rate, and are now entering the stratosphere."

Surkov frowned. "The PAK-FAs cannot pursue. They have reached their maximum density altitude. Order Colonel Katko to disengage and return to base," Surkov directed one of his men. "Continue to track those Cylons. I want to know where they're going."

"As do I," Jess nodded, lightly touching Sadowski on the shoulder. "Find me that Base Ship, Stefan. Mirskii, any luck trying to raise Barstow Base?"

"Not yet, Director," she replied. "The carrier's still active, but she's silent."

"Keep trying."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Jess, you're not going to believe this. I have General Roach of the US Air Force on sat-link," Orlov inserted.

"General Roach?" Surkov said. "What rock has he been hiding under up until now?"

"Little Rock," Orlov suggested.

"Bad Rock," Mirskii threw in.

"Hard Rock Cafe," Sadowski suggested.

"Alright, already, time to rock 'n roll," Jess ended it with a smirk. "Put him through, Sergei."

A moment later, an image of the US Air Force Chief of Staff filled their screen. "Director Dayton, I understand there's a . . . a _situation_ in your part of the world. Unfortunately, telecommunications have been down to a large extent since . . ."

"Damn right there's a situation, General," she interrupted him, turning to Orlov. "Have Hayashi kill Killstar. And show Roach the telemetry, Sergei." She waited a few minutes as replayed images of surface-to-air missiles slammed into Cylon Raiders, destroying them. "But last I remember, Roach, you seized my space shuttle and my men, were conspiring to kill my sister, _and_ destroy both Baikonur and Guiana Space Centres."

"I never tried to kill your sister, Dayton. You have my word."

"Who, then?"

"If someone did, it was probably that scumbag Mason. He has vermin in every corner, Dayton. I don't operate that way. In fact, I spoke to LM just hours ago. She set me straight about a few things. She was very persuasive."

"_You_ spoke to Lauren?" Jess repeated in disbelief. _Roach_ was the hero her sister was talking about? Necessity did, indeed, make strange bedfellows.

She shook her head at the image.

"I did. Not quite sure how she got my number, but . . ."

"She's had your number for years, Roach," a familiar voice said in the background.

Speaking of . . . "Where the _hell_ is Grae Ryan and the rest of my people, Roach?" she demanded through clenched teeth. "I haven't heard squat from them in over . . ."

"Ryan's right here," Roach said, "with me."

Then the image shifted, swinging to focus on Ryan. He looked a little battered, a fat lip being most prominent, but that wasn't surprising since he never had learned to keep his big mouth shut. Taunting General Roach and anyone else in a US Air Force uniform would come naturally to him.

"Grae! You're alright?"

"I'm right as rain, Jess, although people keep trying to either kill me or arrest me. Pretty typical day, all in all. What about you?"

"Sounds like _my_ day," she agreed. "But I'm still standing as well, interstellar plots and wars notwithstanding."

"Well, you'd better sit down, Beautiful, because not only is Roach with us, but a Colonial Warrior just landed here at Area 51!"

"Area 51?" Then a second later as she processed the information: "_Starbuck_?"

"Yes, Starbuck! Not only that, but your father's old war buddy is with us too! Dick Dickins!"

"Holy Mother of . . ."

"Now that Roach is on our side, we need to get our generals in a row, Darlin'," Ryan drawled. "Time's a'wasting with those boilerplated baddies lurking out there."

"Right, but first put Starbuck on, Grae," Jess told him.

The screen switched again, this time the Colonial Warrior's image coming on. "I saw the telemetry. Good job! Any losses, Jess?" he asked.

"You see," Surkov grunted, "the soldier."

"No losses, except for _you_," Jess replied. "How on Earth did you end up on the other side of the planet, Starbuck?"

"I'm not quite sure myself," the warrior admitted. "But it sure beats some of the other possibilities."

"Are you saying that you don't even have control of your ship when this Clavis thing surges?" she asked, not quite understanding how it could spontaneously dematerialise. Surkov stood behind her, glowering his disapproval and discontent at the situation.

"Remember those you call the Guardians, Jess? Look, all I'm saying that there are powers even more potent than _me_ out there in the universe," Starbuck replied deadpan, and she couldn't help but grin at his bravado. He and Grae would be exchanging stories in short order. "But the Goddess of Luck has been on my side since Sagan wore sandals, so don't worry too much. Now, the Cylons, did you get them all?"

"Two Raiders got away," she told him. "The aircraft can't pursue them outside of the atmosphere, and I'm not sending another shuttle up there. It would be suicide."

"Can you track them?" Starbuck asked.

"We're doing our best. It will depend on available satellites and probes in that quadrant."

"All right," he nodded, glancing upward for a moment. "Put Surkov on. We need to coordinate our offences."

"Don't you mean our defences?" she asked.

"Those too."

xxxxx

"Commander!" Jolly called from the flight deck. "Captain Dorado for you, sir!"

"I'll be right there, Lieutenant!" Dayton returned, turning back to Ryan. "Have a seat, Paddy, and keep an eye on Johnson for me. I don't trust him."

"That makes three of us," Paddy nodded towards Baker, who had already taken a seat across from the Barstow crewman where he was still working on Malus. "No man that consumed with hatred can be thinking straight."

"Like us, when it came to Torg?"

"I never lost my objectivity when it came to Torg. Lost my marbles a couple times, but never my objectivity."

Dayton nodded, squeezing his friend's shoulder. "I hear ya. Anyway, just do me a favour and keep in mind that he's Marilyn Johnson's _son_. I want you to watch him, not torment him. Meanwhile, keep working on Malus."

"I never get to have any fun anymore."

"What are you talking about, it's a laugh a minute with the _Endeavour_ crew," Dayton replied, heading forward to the flight deck. He grabbed the headset that the lieutenant passed him. "Dayton here, Dorado. Go ahead."

"_Good of you to join us, sir_," Dorado said from the _Endeavour_'s Control Centre, his tone and expression on screen making it clear that he hadn't appreciated needing to send a patrol to tell his commander to get a move on so they could complete their mission. The quick "in and out mission" to Mars had taken too damn long, and—despite what they had found—everybody knew it.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sticks and stones," Dayton replied, as the others made ready to depart Mars' orbit. "Apollo?" he checked the frequency, hoping that the colonel who had already launched in his Hybrid would be receiving them. "Are you there? Are you getting this?"

"_Yes, Commander_," Apollo replied. "_Go ahead, Dorado_."

"_The_ _Clavis__ is still draining power from our energizers and we can't control it. All attempts to shut it down have failed, and we cannot disengage it from the ship's power grid. It surged twice while you were on Mars and it felt like we had just energized. Thankfully, the first time we came back just slightly off course from where we left_. _The second time we were parsecs off our orbital position_ . . . "

"I'm not so sure it's the _Clavis_ doing that," Dayton interrupted, taking a seat in what would once be the flight leader's position, and watching Dietra go through the pre-flight. "Count Iblis might be behind it." Dayton briefly explained what had transpired in the pyramid.

The captain seemed to take it all in stride, unflappable as always. "_Well, regardless, it's still a problem. Just checking now._ _Yes, it's reached fifty-one point four percent. We have about thirty-eight centars until it energizes of its own volition. Unless we get Malus back."_

"Ryan and Baker have been working on Mal with no luck so far," Dayton told him with a glance aft. "Go on."

"_Phoenix Squadron should be nearing Earth's orbit any centon, but the Cylon strike force got there first_."

Dayton could have strangled him for the dramatic pause. "_And_?"

"_Porter_," Dorado called on the Earthman who had been monitoring all transmissions coming from Earth.

"_The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming_," Porter replied with a terrible accent, coming on screen. He put a tactical holographic of the area around Earth up and pointed. "_Hope you're getting this._" The blips representing Phoenix Squadron were rapidly closing on the planet. "_The Russians decimated almost the entire Cylon squadron over Kazakhstan, using surface-to-air missiles, Mark. Can you believe it_? _Our antiquated junk?__"_

"Thank God. I was afraid we'd be dead in the water." Dayton chewed his lip as they taxied to the edge of the landing deck. He only half listened as Jolly communicated with _Endeavour_ Control on another line. A moment later, they were lifting off, and heading for their Base Ship. Once outside, they circled the base, then raised the nose of the transport and clawed for space. "You said _almost_ the entire squadron, Dorado?"

"_A couple escaped, heading back to space_," Dorado replied, indicating the tactical display. Two blips were screaming away from Earth at over fifty k. "_Should Phoenix Squadron intercept, sir_?"

"_Actually, this would be perfect for Lu_," Apollo suggested.

"Exactly." Dayton nodded enthusiastically. "Tell Phoenix Squadron to lay low and await my orders. Use that scrambled Cylon code that our pilots hate so much. As far as Lu goes, get her to follow them and track any transmissions they send back to that Base Ship. Full ECM. I want to know where that ugly behemoth is."

"Right here," Ryan said entering the flight deck, draping an arm loosely over Dayton's shoulders.

"Right on cue. I've already seen the Devil today, so it would _have_ to be you this time. Any further luck with Malus?" Dayton asked.

"Plenty. All of it bad, Mark. But I have an idea. That toad needs a prince."

"_Toad? Prince? Did I hear that right?__" Dorado asked.__"__This is going to be yet another weird _'_Earth moment_'_, isn't it_?"

"_Please_ tell me you're kidding." Dayton winced at the imagery as the shuttle vibrated beneath them. Out the ports, the sky had already gone black, Mars now a huge red curve below them. Off to the right, he could see the irregularly shaped Phobos, Mars' inner moon. Apollo took up position on the left.

"It's a Disney scene, if ever I did see one," Ryan said. "A couple times I thought we had Malus back, but his optical lights flashed and then just died again. It's like he has no will to live. Face it, these are the wrong baby blues." He batted his eyelashes again.

"He's a _robot_!" Dayton reminded him. "A glorified poster boy for Radio Shack! Not a real . . ."

"A robot that loves our golden-haired strike captain," Ryan said, crossing his arms and shrugging his shoulders. "I need Starbuck."

Baker was suddenly there behind them. "We could rig something when we get back on the _Endeavour_, Paddy. We have enough vid-files with Starbuck on them to choke a fan club."

"Just how badly do we _need_ Malus?" Dayton asked, wondering if he could spare the manpower. "Can we manage without him?"

"_Remember the Clavis_," Apollo said, from his Hybrid.

"Remember the Alamo," Baker added.

"Damn!" Ryan exploded.

"What?" Dayton asked.

"That reminds me, I rented a Chrysler Sebring from Alamo while I was in Florida, and never did return it . . ." Ryan shook his head, suddenly looking sheepish as they all stared at him in disbelief on screen and off. "Not so important. Never mind."

"_Commander_," Apollo called.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"_I'm picking up some strange readings from that little moon_."

"Phobos?" Baker asked.

Dayton nodded. "Strange how, Apollo?"

"_I'm detecting traces of highly refined tylinium, alloys and other advanced compounds within some kind of massive cavern, Commander_._ The moon is at least partly hollow!"_

"Tylinium alloys?" Dayton echoed, glancing at Baker. "Hollow? Captain Dorado, did you get that?"

"_Aye, sir. Scanning, Commander_," the captain replied from the _Endeavour_'s Control Centre. He focused the ship's entire sensor suite onto the small satellite, with emphasis on magnetic and mineral scans, as well as tracking and computing the space rock's orbital dynamics. After a few moments, the returns literally raised eyebrows, and he re-ran the whole series.

Due to the small moon's unusually close orbit to Mars, Phobos actually moved around Mars faster than the actual planet itself rotated, meaning that it rose and set twice during each Martian day. The _Endeavour_ had already seen it come and go since taking up its position.

_"__Holy Lords of Kobol!__"_ muttered Dorado, rechecking his data._ "__This can't be accurate.__"_

_"_Captain?"

"_Commander, if what I'm reading is correct, there's some kind of infrastructure in there_!" Dorado reported. _ "__I'm also reading areas that . . . that are pressurized! Internal atmosphere! Also some strange magnetic readings. Unquestionably artificial, sir.__"_

"Curtis!" Dayton called the Barstow Base commander forward. It was the obvious solution. After all, many had once theorized that going to Phobos would be a natural stepping-stone to finally landing on Mars. "Do your people have some kind of base on Phobos that we should know about?"

Curtis looked at him strangely. "Noooo . . ." He blinked. "Aside from putting an emergency radio relay satellite in orbit around Phobos, we've never visited it, Commander. The idea was pitched a few times, but always rejected by Director Moore and his predecessors. He was the director before Jess Dayton, by the way."

"_Do you want us to check it out, Commander_?" Apollo asked.

"Do it, but make it quick. I don't want any further delays, Colonel."

"_Yes_,_ sir_." The colonel's Hybrid peeled off towards the moon.

Dayton looked forward, noticing the _Endeavour_ now dead ahead, as they made their approach. They'd been so consumed with their discussion, he hadn't thought to include the Barstow crew. After all, Cylon shuttles didn't have viewports aft of the flight deck. They couldn't see anything. "Curtis, take a look. You might want to see this."

The other man's gaze drifted forward. "Oh . . . my _God_ . . ." he murmured, leaning forward to drink in the view of the Covert Operations Ship, _Endeavour_, spinning in space, bigger than anything he'd seen before out there in the great unknown. "It's a . . . a real flying saucer!" Curtis gestured to some of his crew to come forward and look. "Where . . . where in God's name did you get it?"

"Well, actually . . ." Dayton began.

"We stole it," finished Jolly.

"You _stole_ it?" asked one of Curtis' men.

"Conscripted and refitted it, really," said Dayton. "About half a parsec from Planet 'P'."

"Isn't she hideous?" Ryan asked, with a grin. "Talk about one ugly pile of scrap." Unlike the more imposing double saucer shape of the modern day _Hades_-class Base Star, the single saucer that was the _Abaddon_-class Base Ship looked almost comical considering the early renditions of "flying saucers" in Earth history.

"A real killer," Dayton said, turning to admire his ugly ship. "You should see the _Galactica_, Curtis. That's the Colonial Battlestar. She's a beauty compared to this monstrosity."

"Ah, she's not much to look at, but she's home," Baker said with a nod. By now Mars was invisible below them and Phobos had disappeared as the _Endeavour _filled the ports.

"_Commander, are you still there_?" Dorado was asking him.

"Sorry, Dorado. Go ahead." Dayton said

"_Getting back on topic, my best plan requires Malus, Commander_. _I was going to use him to deceive the Cylon commander, like we did at Planet 'P' and Morlais_. _Without the IL, we have a bunch of guys walking around in Cylon armour with vocal modulators. It's fine for background, but not as good for a starring role_."

"Understood. Is any of the Cylon armour gold?"

"_Yes, sir. We have the parts of the old Gold Command Centurion, and we can anodise more if we have to_."

"How soon can we get to Earth?"

Dorado turned to the tactical display and changed the perspective. A course to Earth was displayed, with time and plotting data. "_At light-speed, we can get there before we can get the Cylon suits on. But with the Clavis draining so much of our energy, I'm not even sure what we can get out of the Endeavour right now_."

"Call Engineering, and find out. Yesterday."

"_Yesterday it was different, sir_," Dorado replied.

"I _meant_ . . ."

"_Yes, sir_."

Dayton sighed. "Still no sign of the _Ravager_?"

"_She's hiding somewhere, waiting_." Dorado split the screen, Earth shrinking to one corner, the rest swelling to show the entire solar system. "_We are sweeping the system continually, Commander. But so far she's eluded us_."

"That changes with Lu."

Jolly lined her up with one of the _Endeavour'_s landing bays, holding back until the final Hybrid had landed. Curtis just watched, awe-struck, as they passed between huge sections of the hull, bristling with laser turrets, towards the yawning landing bay doors. The shuttle lurched slightly as the _Endeavour _took over, and they were guided to their slip. The shuttle powered down and the doors closed behind them. After getting the green light, Dayton led them aft to the hatch. Once down on the deck, Curtis and his people remained silent, taking in the sheer size of the vessel.

"My God," someone finally said, looking up. The ceiling above them was thick with lights, machinery, Lord knew what.

"Yeah," whispered Curtis.

"Okay, posts everybody. Cassiopeia?"

"Yes?" she replied, turning her attention from her new med tech. The Empyrean Healer, Rhiamon, had already begun reassessing the radiated and injured Barstow crewmembers.

"The Central Core isn't going to work with the worst of your patients. After decon, use the ammunition hoist to get them to Life Station." He pointed.

"Right, Commander." She turned towards the survivors of Barstow. "Okay everyone, we'll be heading for Life Station after decon. Just stay calm, and we'll take care of each and every one of you requiring care. Those already medically cleared, please go with Flight Sergeant Giles." She waved a hand towards the warrior.

"Okay, get a move on, we need to get to the bridge," said Mark, heading into decon with Baker and Ryan.

"Control Centre," corrected Baker.

"I may change it," Dayton mused.

"Really? A custom job?" asked Baker. "How about installing a sun roof?"

"Through thirty decks?"

"We could use one of those condensed tylinium tubes we found on Mars," Baker teased him.

"Very funny."

"No? Then what about spoilers? The more I think about it, the more I realize, she really _is_ ugly, Mark. We need to detail her."

"Bob, do I have to remind you that _Ryan_ is supposed to be the verbally incontinent one," Dayton asked, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "Not _you_."

"Right. Sorry." There was a barely detectable smirk. "Now and then I forget."

"No bloody kidding."

"Speaking of sun roofs and spoilers," Ryan piped up thoughtfully, "I wonder if I can still get my deposit back from Alamo."


	40. Chapter Twelve: Part Two

"They are running out of time," Iblis reminded Ama, "at this rate the _Clavis_ will remove them from this star system before they even find the Cylons."

She probed him, searching for the secret behind the Clavis, but only coming up against a formidable barrier. Was Iblis purposely delaying the discovery of the _Ravager_ to wait out the _Endeavour_'s seemingly inevitable departure? It didn't seem to fit. What then?

"They will find a way. Malus . . ."

Iblis laughed cruelly.

She told herself she could get very tired of that laugh.

xxxxx

Lauren took a lungful of air, counting slowly and silently to ten before speaking again. "All I'm trying to say is _don't trust anyone_."

It was so silent that she figured he'd disconnected.

"I can't live that way." Another deep breath. "I just can't."

"Actually, you have it _wrong_. That's the _only_ way you can live right now."

This time the line did go dead. At the same time an alarm beeped. She glanced at her monitoring system. A perimeter alarm had gone off. Two contacts, both closing in on her quickly. Another so-called safe house was no longer safe. It was time to move again. She was running out of places to go and people to trust.

xxxxx

Lieutenant Rooke sighed heavily, decoding his new orders. He was supposed to assign Luana to shadow the fleeing Cylon Raiders in hopes they would lead the Colonials back to the _Ravager_. The problem being . . . Lu had disappeared.

He could only presume that the _Clavis_ had pulsed again, this time sending the Wraith at the very least out of scanner range. He hadn't even picked up any correlating spatial distortions to signify a possible reappearance elsewhere after she had vanished.

That only left one option.

He'd have to send three Hybrids, directing them to remain just outside of scanner range, as they tailed the Cylon Raiders. Played right, they could track their course back to wherever the _Ravager _was hiding. It _could_ work. Worst-case scenario, they'd have to use their vocal modulators to bluff their way through a possible situation that they had all been drilled for. Best-case scenario, they'd find the Cylon Base Ship.

"Acastus, Trevanian and Lambda . . ."

xxxxx

_ Beep._

Apollo looked at his scanner readout. The larger of the two small moons of Mars, which Dayton had called _Phobos, _was dead ahead. He slowed his approach and digested the data in front of him.

"Hmm," Dietra murmured beside him, adjusting the scanner. "Colonel, look at this!"

"Dorado wasn't kidding," Apollo muttered as the information scrolled up.

The moon was ever so slightly spiralling in towards the planet, losing a tiny amount of altitude with each circuit of Mars. Dorado had said something about "gravitational tides" having this effect. But it was the moon _itself_, rather than the complex dynamics of its orbit, that had his attention now.

According to the instruments, there was a measurable decrease in magnetic field strength near the moon, along with an almost one for one correlation in plasma density increases. Meaning, or so the computer said, that something that was affected by the solar wind, was, albeit very slowly, venting from _inside_ the moon. He waited while Dietra ran a more precise scan. Yes, the moon was largely hollow, as the scans from the last flyby aboard the _Endeavour_ had indicated.

_ "Hollow?" Dietra said incredulously. "A moon this size? How can that be?"_

_ "Yeah." Apollo nodded. "Incredible."_

Adjusting thrust and trajectory, they put themselves in orbit around the tiny world, intensely scanning the ground beneath them. Apollo's mind reeled as he read the results on his screen. The body of Phobos _was_ unquestionably hollow, with an average thickness of three hundred metrons for the "hull" of the moon. _Lords of Kobol!_ As the scans progressed, he could see interior structures starting to show: beams, massive bracing, support trusses, what looked like levels and passageways. All, like the hull itself, made of highly dense, armour-bonded tylinium.

"Colonel, I'm reading an active power source somewhere inside," Dietra said. "It's weak, barely registering actually, but it's there, sir."

"My God," he replied, wondering what they had stumbled upon. "Something still works in there?"

"So it seems, Sir, although you've got me as to how. It looks like this whole thing was pummelled."

_They_ passed over a section of the moon, the original hull plating clearly visible beneath scores of metrons of dust and debris. Some of the "plates" were the size of the _Endeavour_!

"What kind of technology could have built such a . . . such a behemoth?" Dietra wondered aloud.

"It _had_ to be Kobollian, but . . . I don't think any of us were expecting _anything_ of this magnitude," Apollo replied.

"It's exactly this magnitude that I associate with them," Dietra replied. "I'll never forget that constant sensation of feeling dwarfed while I was on Kobol, and again on Mars looking up at that pyramid, as well as some of the ruins. Everything seemed huge."

The scanner beeped again as they passed through some kind of gaseous vapour.

"Sir . . . I'm reading _air_," Dietra reported. From deep inside the ancient hulk, atmosphere was still slowly being lost to space. "And it's breathable."

"This is unbelievable," Apollo replied. "Imagine, technology like this right in Earth's backyard, and they didn't even know it was here!"

"I remember Paddy saying that Phobos and Deimos, its sister moon, weren't even discovered until the Earth yahren A.D.1877," Dietra told him. "He mentioned something about Mars being in opposition then, and every telescope on Earth being turned this way."

"Don't you find that odd?" Apollo asked, after a moment. "I sure do."

"How so?"

He shrugged. "It just seems that if they'd already been observing Mars for a few hundred yahrens by then, that they would have seen the moons."

"A difference in technology?" she suggested. "Old-style telescopes with glass lenses and mirrors. Pretty primitive."

"Maybe."

While incredible in technology and execution, Phobos was also in sad shape. It had been slammed and battered by myriad impacts. A few, large and deep, had certainly wreaked havoc with the place, perhaps bringing it close to destruction. And, if the scans were right, the forces involved in the dynamics of its orbital decay were slowly exerting an ever-increasing stress on the body of the moon. The parallel and often right angle lines of pits or depressions in the surface followed what scanned out as seams in the hull. Bit by bit, the moon was being torn apart by the gravitational pull of Mars. Eventually, if it did not crash into the planet first . . .

"Holy frack!" Dietra exclaimed, whipping her neck to starboard. "Was that what I thought it was?"

"Where?" Apollo asked, coming about before he spotted it. He blew out a short breath. It was a tall, squared structure, jutting out of the surface of Phobos, reaching about seventy-five or so metrons into the sky. "A tower?"

Dietra nodded. "Some kind of monolith. Can we make another pass?"

"Definitely."

They manoeuvred around and circled it, finally drawing to within arms length of it. It was made of tylinium, covered in dust tossed up by impacts and set with what scanned out as airlocks and sensor arrays. It was hollow and seemed to offer ingress. But the area was thick with dust, and the solid surface was dozens of metrons down, putting the Hybrid fighter at risk for disappearing into the regolith.

"What do you think, Colonel?" Dietra asked, her own thoughts clear by the tone of her voice.

"Despite the miniscule gravity, I'd say its too risky, Dee. The commander would have our hides if they had to launch another rescue mission."

"I was hoping you'd say that," she smiled ruefully.

"Been flying with Starbuck too long?" he couldn't help but tease her. After all, she had been assigned as Starbuck's co-pilot since the _Endeavour _squadrons had been formed. He could almost hear his friend discussing the odds and trying to decide whether expediency would outweigh risk.

"We balance one another. Sometimes I'm _too_ cautious," she replied seriously, evaluating herself.

"Too cautious? I remember you once leading a greenhorn squadron into combat against orders to save a certain strike captain's astrum."

She smiled. "The first rule in the Book of Starbuck: protect your wing leader. That was you, sir."

"I remember when our officers used to quote the _manual_ . . ."

"Starbuck threw out the manual, Colonel. Now we quote the _Book of Starbuck_."

He glanced at her, quirking an eyebrow.

She grinned.

Together, they laughed.

"Lieutenant," he chuckled, "let's see if we can find another way in."

The gigantic crater at one "end" of Phobos turned out to be artificial. Beneath the outer shell, they scanned trusses and support beams. Around the edges, they detected the remains of condensed tylinium over a metron thick. Once, this crater, or at least parts of it, had been _domed_ over! Just like on Mars! Dietra just shook her head. Apollo said nothing. They flew in close, doing a visual check on the surface.

"It looks like some sort of landing bay entrance port or huge airlock," he said, squinting to see an accumulation of dust as well as bent and twisted wreckage that blocked passage.

"We won't get a ship in _that_ way," Dietra said. "Even one this size."

But it wasn't the only way. Partway around the moon there was another opening, larger than the _Galactica__'_s landing bay ports. Lining up, they directed all scans inside and flipped on the powerful searchlights. After a moment, Apollo wound his jaw back up from off the floor, and slowly began to move the ship forward. Within microns, he was fully surrounded by Phobos, and couldn't decide whether to be excited or afraid.

"Would you look at that!" Dietra exclaimed. "Jaysus bloody Murphy!"

"Oh my God!" Apollo breathed as they passed over what had once obviously been a landing bay deck. Now, it was littered with debris. Rocks, hunks of twisted metal and plastics, and, according to the scans, _organic _material! Something had once been alive inside here. From above hung more debris, conduits, cables, and Lords knew what else, still somehow anchored to the interior. With practised skill, they manoeuvred around the wreckage . . .

Dietra screamed as something came up against the ship . . . something humanoid. She abruptly choked off the sound, putting a hand to her mouth. "Sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be," he replied, feeling shaken himself.

Entangled in hanging wires was a frozen and desiccated figure, like a mummy. Shuddering, he flew past through a massive set of half-open blast doors that for unknown reasons had never closed, leaving the interior exposed to space. From the scans, the bay had also been equipped with what looked like a variation of the force-field barrier that the _Galactica_ used. The blast doors must have been some sort of back-up system, in case of a threat of catastrophic decompression. Then they were past the jumble of destruction . . .

And into a massive hangar bay. Casting his lights around, he could see a vast steel deck, mostly free of wreckage.

"Well?" Dietra asked.

"Let's set her down and take a look."

"I had a feeling you were going to say that."

"Now you're _really_ starting to sound like Starbuck!" Apollo grinned.

"He'd be pleased to know that, sir."

Gently setting down, they powered down the ship, leaving everything but scanners and the tracking beacon on standby. Making sure their suits and helmets were secure, they depressurized the cockpit.

It felt . . . very strange as Apollo sat there spellbound, looking out into the gloom. "You realize we're the first living things to enter this place in millennia?" he said quietly.

"Just as long as we _leave_ that way too, sir" she replied, her voice tense as she stood up and headed aft. A moment later the hatch was open.

Slowly, trying to adjust their movements to the microgravity, they climbed down the ladder, and gingerly lowered themselves to the deck. Once down, they activated their magnetic boots, and drew their lasers.

"Dee, turn on the recorder in your suit," he said, doing so himself. "They're going to want to see this back on the _Endeavour_."

His illuminator did not penetrate far into the inky blackness, but the multi-spectral imaging in his helmet more than made up for it. The hangar bay they were in was enormous, larger than those on a Battlestar. Far above, Apollo could see rows of illuminators, all now dark, some hanging from ripped cables. Partway up one wall was some sort of control gantry, accessed by an externally mounted lift. Moving closer, he saw that the lift was jammed partway up, with no way for them to reach it, or power to fire it back up. In the other direction, the bay continued on deeper into Phobos. They moved that way, scanners in hand, until they came to another air lock. This one was wrecked, the door hanging at an angle, the frame buckled outwards.

"What happened here?" Dietra wondered aloud.

"I wonder if it was part of the same catastrophe that destroyed the Mars settlement?" A creepy feeling moved over him suddenly, an almost primal feeling, as if he were being watched. It was irrational, he told himself, looking over at Dee. There was _no_ life here. None. Yet . . .

He forcibly shrugged off the cloying sensation and straightened his shoulders. Studying the air lock another moment, he stepped inside . . .

And gasped as he saw they indeed had company. Another corpse, this one unsettlingly well preserved, lay there, caught up against part of the door. Its space suit was ripped, and its mouth hung open in a silent, long-faded scream.

"_Sagan_ . . ." Dietra said. "Is it human?"

Apollo scanned it. "Yes, human DNA." Whoever it was had died suddenly when whatever had happened to Phobos had happened.

Across the airlock, the door was likewise open, and with little effort, they managed to slide it open further, bringing down a tiny rain of dust. Once through, they found themselves on some sort of long felix-walk or observation gallery. Far away, across the cavernous space of the moon's interior, Apollo could see points of intense light. It was the sun shining through openings and gaps in the station's hull. Dimly illuminating the opposite side, it made plain the true immensity of this place.

"Lords! Just . . . Lords!" Apollo said as he took it in.

Close to _eighteen hundred cubic kilometrons_ of space opened up before him. The entire moon enclosed more space than any space station or asteroid base Apollo had ever seen or heard of. Letting his brain wrap itself around the immensity of the concept, he checked his scanner. While this inner core of the moon was airless, he did scan chambers scattered about the interior that still read as pressurized.

"Makes me wonder if some survived the final catastrophe," Apollo mused aloud. "Did a few make it to secure areas and seal themselves in from the massive decompression of the moon? Did they manage to escape afterwards, or were they sealed in still?" He paused in thought, looking around. "Did their refuges become tombs?"

"I feel like I'm on a tomb _tour_ today," Dietra replied tensely, thinking of the corpses they had found so far. "Let's get moving."

Apollo shook off his lugubrious musings as they continued along the gallery. Numerous airlock and doors opened on to it, some to elevator shafts, some still closed and intact. But it was the almost-frighteningly huge inner space that drew his attention. Adjusting his helmet's optics and the scanners, he looked out over the railing of the felix-walk.

Dietra gasped beside him.

It had been a world struck dead in an instant. As far as his scans could reach, the inner side of the hull "below" him, and from one end of Phobos to the other, had been engineered into a pseudo-planet! Hills, valleys, buildings clustered almost like towns, littered the "ground". A huge area, showing traces of frozen water, had once been a _lake_, its waters flowing around this purpose-built paradise in a system of artificial _rivers_! Now dead, the barren dirt had once been thick with vegetation, or so the scanner said. The whole inner surface of the moon had been engineered into a habitable world. For those who had once called this place home, it must have seemed like living on the surface of a real planet, with trees, crops, blue sky, and water in abundance. Either through grav-plating or the rotation of the entire station, the perfect environment had been created, capable of supporting a population of perhaps millions! Even now, debris and bodies hung in the dark void, grotesque signposts to the ancient civilization that had once flourished and then died here.

It had all ended in moments, snuffed out by whatever horrific forces had torn Phobos open to space. Apollo shook his head. It was incredible. Not just such technology, but also that it could be rendered impotent in a moment by the blind forces of nature. Or, perhaps, the blind fury of men, if the theory that two distinct groups from Kobol had fallen out and come into conflict were in fact true.

"Colonel."

Apollo looked again at his scanner as something began to flash. Zooming in, he saw a point far "below" him begin to give way as stress built up in a junction of beams and supports. Then, it seemed to pass as the moon moved on its orbit, and the vastly complex interplay of forces changed. Apollo swept the area again and then saw something else, even more interesting. The power source they had scanned outside was registering on his machine. It was weak, but real. He swept it again and again . . .

"Holy frack!" Apollo swore so loudly it hurt his ears. As he zoomed in on the source, he saw it. Saw _them.__ "Dietra!"_

_ "I don't believe it!"_

Ships! Far "above" them, directly opposite the centre of the transformed region, ensconced in the crawlon web of gantries, were three large vessels. Apollo found himself gawking, like a child on his first visit to a museum, as he took them in. Each ship vaguely resembled an archaic Colonial battlecruiser in their basic lines, but in size were closer to the _Galactica_. With two of them, parts of their interiors were exposed, sections of the hulls incomplete or stripped out. The third looked close to completion. It was from one of them that the energy readings came. Was it a fuel core, still active? Had the shafts of sunlight touched some still-operational solar panels? Had the ships been under construction when the end came, or could these, perhaps, be the very vessels that had brought them from Kobol, so long ago? As he scanned, he began describing his impressions into the recorder. Another shaft of sunlight peeked through a gap, illuminating one of the enormous vessels.

"Colonel, it's the crater we saw on the surface!"

The exit to space, from which such ships could have come and gone. Had they had more time and equipment, it _might_ have been their entry into Phobos.

"Lords of Kobol!" he said. Both artificial planet _and_ shipyard, together. "Utterly incredible!"

As he studied them further, he could see that the ships were askew, as if the final disaster had knocked them out of their berths, leaving them tangled in umbilicals and supports. Apollo swallowed. This whole base, station, whatever. It made him feel small, like a flint-knapping cave dweller suddenly finding and trying to come to terms with a nuclear energy plant. Whoever had built this place had been giants compared to his people. But then it was said that the Kobollians had possessed knowledge and skills far, _far_ above anything known today. Even to the Cylons. He had thought that to be merely legend. Until this day.

"Colonel . . ." Dietra said.

"I know, Lieutenant. Me too."

Like her, he wanted to get up there, to get his hands on those ships, to get inside, to divine their secrets. To see if they could actually _fly_ one! Hades Hole, he wanted to do that with the whole station! But they had a mission to carry out and a Base Ship to locate and destroy. He lightly slapped her on the shoulder. Regretfully and resentfully, they turned away, retracing their steps back towards the bay. Carefully making their way out, he decided to pick up a token of his visit, a small, box-like object, sticking up out of the debris. Putting it in his pouch, Apollo followed Dietra into the Hybrid. Climbing in, they powered her up, and slowly headed back out into space.

xxxxx

"My turn, Daughter," Iblis snarled.

It was a game of strategy where she had to anticipate Iblis' next move, while fortifying her champions. The disadvantage was that he knew who all the players were, while she did not.

"Then take it."

He looked at her for a moment as if unsure how to take her words. Then, he smiled.

"As you wish."

xxxxx

"By-your-command."

"Speak, Centurion," Syphax commanded as he entered the Control Centre of the _Ravager_.

"Long-range-telemetry-indicates-almost-total-destruction-of-our-patrol-sent-to-investigate-the-disappearance-of-Patrol-Four."

It was astonishing enough that Syphax almost blew a diode. Standing stock still, he turned his head to look at the other. "_Destruction_?"

"Affirmative, Commander."

"We were defeated. By a _primitive_ enemy?"

"Affirmative, Commander."

"I must say, I find it somewhat . . . bewildering. How can that be?" Syphax mused aloud. Their recent investigation of a spatial distortion had turned up nothing. At first he had dismissed it as an anomaly, but now he was not so certain. "Have I underestimated these humans?"

"It-appears-so, Commander."

"I was not talking to you, Centurion."

"I-was-unaware-of-that, Commander."

Syphax paused to consider his subordinate officer. "Did you say _almost_ total destruction? Almost?"

"Two-Raiders-escaped."

"What did these human vermin use?"

"Initial reports indicate some kind of surface-to-air missiles."

"Hmm," Syphax said. "It appears that the primitive probes are not an accurate indication of the humans' defensive network, after all. Have our patrol transmit their telemetry with a full report."

"By-your-command."

xxxxx

In the main administration area of "Area 51", Starbuck pressed himself into a comfortable chair and took another sip of "fresh" coffee, closing his eyes in appreciation of the energy boost he was already feeling. As drugs went, _coffee_ was definitely on his all-time high list of useful stimulants that could keep a warrior going long past the time when his body wanted to call it quits. Between him and the two generals, at least _now_ they had a military strategy in place to defend Earth against any more Cylon fighters, assuming the _Ravager_ still carried the customary four squadrons. Surkov and Roach were spreading the word with their international colleagues, letting every nation in a formal organization known as the United Nations in on their plan. Now, all that was left was for a decision to come down from the deliberating United Nations Security Council—whatever that was—which the American President was this very centon flying out to personally address. According to Graeme Ryan, getting the fifteen members to agree on anything was quite difficult. Especially with the five permanent members—the United States, China, Russia, the United Kingdom and France—having the power of veto. Seemed that, much like in the Twelve Colonies, a bunch of bureauticians had to first decide whether they should make an effort to save Earth before dedicated soldiers could do what they already realized needed doing.

Oh well, all that said and done, it was out of his hands for now, giving him yet another chance to dwell on Luana and what had happened to her when the Clavis had pulsated. It was the part about having a warrior for a wife that he hated. That all-consuming worry that no man was immune to. He tried to console himself that she was a good pilot; she wouldn't be flying the Wraith if she wasn't. If Baltar had been watching over him, maybe Ama was watching over her goddaughter. It make perfect sense. _Now stop thinking about it, Bucko, or you'll go spacehappy._

He rested his head back against the plush headrest, kicking up the footrest as he'd been shown, and sighing at the sensation of his body sinking into luxurious padding. Dickins had insisted he try the chair, which he called a "lazy boy", saying that every red-blooded man deserved one at some point. Now this was living! A guy could get seriously used to furniture like this, designed for comfort instead of bleak Colonial utilitarianism. It actually made a guy a little sleepy, despite the coffee, especially with a full stomach.

Which brought him back to his first taste of American food. What was it called again? Oh yeah, a _hamburger_. It was like sinking your teeth into a little slice of heaven as exquisite flavour exploded in your mouth with each bite. It was savoury, meaty, saucy, and he could eat it with his hands! Sagan's sake, it was probably the first taste of _real_ meat he'd had since that roasted Black-Backed Bobak on Planet 'P'. And he hadn't needed to catch it _or_ kill it! His mouth began to water again just thinking about it. That stuff they called . . .uh, _ketchup_. Now there was something he could make a pile from back in the Fleet! That and those odd-looking strips of something called _French Fries. _Lords of Kobol! The whole thing hadn't been much to look at, but if this was any indication of what he could expect from Earth food, then . . .

His chair seemed to dip to one side. Starbuck's eyes shot open to find a grinning Dickins gazing down at him, leaning on the chair. Hummer was dozing across from them. The old astronaut's hand was on the rim of his cup, apparently steadying it.

"Looked like a head-bob to me, kid," Dickins told him. "Why don't you get forty winks while you can? No Cylons on the radar so far, other than Lucifer being delivered to the stockade."

Starbuck nodded, letting Dickins take the coffee. "Not a bad . . ."

Roach burst into the room, uniform jacket gone, tie askew, destroying all semblance of a restful environment, his face redder than a Cancerian Crustacean.

"What . . .?" Starbuck tried to ask.

"_Idiots_!" Roach exploded. "Goddamned idiots! I swear if we'd just get rid of politicians, the world would be a better place!"

"Better for _who_ exactly?" Grae asked across the room.

"Look at this!" Roach ignored the comment, grabbing a handheld device and pointing it at a huge screen on the wall. Pictures rapidly flew across the screen until the general found what he was looking for. "They're covering some of the Security Council deliberations at the UN."

A man was standing up and orating at a table that was on a sunken level surrounded in an incomplete circle by curved solid raised desk with seats, and behind that, free-sitting chairs. An enormous mural dominated the room that looked as though it was filled to capacity, and then some.

"_What is needed is a deeper search for ways of pre-empting and managing conflicts by exploring every possible diplomatic avenue, and giving attention and encouragement to even the faintest sign of dialogue or desire for reconciliation_."

"Bah!" Roach grunted, pressing the control again as the screen changed. "Same crap for the last hundred years."

"_We are witnessing the obvious paradox of a multilateral consensus that continues to be in crisis because it is still subordinated to the decisions of a small number, while the world's problems require from the international community that it act on a common basis_."

"I think I need my languaphone adjusted," Starbuck murmured.

"You see!" Roach raved, turning the screen off. "I just heard from the President again, Starbuck. He's in flight to New York and has decided he wants you and the Cylon there with him at the UN to show these robot-hugging peaceniks who and what these robots really are! You can take your Wraith and land it at the helipad at the UN Complex. I'll send an escort along so you don't lose your way."

"_Me_?" Starbuck choked out, jumping to his feet, holding up his hands in a instinctive self-defensive stance. His hamburger almost made an unwelcome reappearance as his stomach flip-flopped at the idea of standing in front of all of those Earth bureauticians, like Apollo had at Terra. "I'm a warrior, not a bureautician!" The last time he'd even been in the Council Chamber came to mind, and just the memory made him queasy. "Voted _least_ inspiring in my class, by the way, and most likely to be stripped and moduled!"

"Don't sell yourself short, kid," Dickins slapped him on the shoulder. "If you can convince both Malus _and_ Mark Dayton to join the Colonial military, and Commander Adama to refit a hunk of junk Base Ship as a Covert Operations Ship, then I'd wager that convincing fifteen or so Earth politicians that the Cylons are really bad guys when they've already proved it hands down should be child's play for the son of Chameleon."

"There are more than fifteen people there, Dickins! A lot more." He pointed to the screen. "And it's being broadcasted!"

"Most of them are just observing. They don't matter. They're background, just like the mural on the wall above them." Dickins smiled. "And at least a third of the fifteen are women. Just give them that famous smile and you'll have them eating out of your hand."

Starbuck snorted, shaking his head. "Oh frack, I _really_ don't want to do this! Ten to one my languaphone will stop working right at the crucial moment," he muttered, grimacing. "Dayton, where in Hades Hole are you?"

"He's late. You said so yourself," Dickins returned. "And I wouldn't be surprised if someone was aiming to make him that way. Besides . . . aren't you the official Earth Liaison Officer, designated so by Commander Adama himself?"

"That was different. That was when there were only _five_ of you in the Fleet, Dickins," Starbuck returned, "not _nine_ _billion_. Believe me, if Commander Adama was here, he would be hiding Earth's daughters from me, not showcasing me in front of your world leaders."

"Hummer and I will come along to back you up, Starbuck," Dickins offered. "And keep an eye on that Cylon."

"Probably a good idea, Captain Dickins," Roach said. "Your input could be invaluable."

"Are you sure about bringing Lucifer?" Starbuck inserted, conceding he'd be going whether he liked it or not. "I think we'd be better off running him through a garbage compactor or dropping him from 30,000 metrons. He's trouble."

"Always of a conservative opinion," Dickins sniffed in amusement. "That's what I love about this guy."

"General!" Colonel Hundal burst into the room. "Air Force One just exploded en route to New York!"

"Dear God Almighty. . ." Roach gasped, paling. He closed his eyes, bowing his head into one hand, the other reaching for the wall for support. "Who would . . ." He shook his head, dazed. Then his head jerked upright, fury etched into his features. "_Mason_! I'm going to kill him!"

Starbuck shook his head in confusion at the rapid change in topic and the obvious effect it had on the general. "What's Air Force One?"

"The plane that was carrying the President."


	41. Chapter Thirteen: Part One

Chapter Thirteen

It was a devastating event when the leader of a nation was assassinated. It changed perceptions, filling the hearts of her people with anger, fear, uncertainty, and a vulnerability that would echo throughout their generation and often beyond it. Citizens felt shock, then denial, they sought to understand, they yearned for condemnation, they demanded retribution . . . all through a haze of national grief and disbelief. In this case, it reeked of an inside job and all fingers were pointing in Mason's direction. So not surprisingly, everyone at Area 51 had spent the last several centons in a miasma of emotional turmoil, deliberating what would happen next while they hurled accusations and pondered if the succeeding Vice President, Owain Beglau, would support President Gibson's military initiative or bend Mason's way.

And Earth simply didn't have time for yet another debate right now.

"Well, I'm all packed and ready to go if someone could point me in the general direction of the landing strip," Starbuck said, climbing to his feet and out of his comfortable chair. The room abruptly fell silent as insult and indignation glared at him from every American present, with the exception of Dickins.

"Dear Lord, if I could only go back and make that come out in Colonial Standard," Baltar suddenly said from over his shoulder. "Where did you learn your etiquette, Starbuck?" he hissed. "At Sire Big Mouth's Academy of Insensitivity and Rudeness?"

It was ironic, to say the least, coming from Baltar.

Roach turned and took three slow deliberate strides towards him, coming mere centimetrons from the Colonial Warrior before replying in a scornful voice, "Our President is dead, Captain Starbuck. Have a little respect."

Starbuck met his gaze unflinchingly. "No disrespect intended, General, but you have to understand that where _I'm_ from, all but the ragtag remains of an entire civilization some eight thousand yahrens old is dead and gone because of the Cylons. I'm talking over _twenty billions_ lives wiped out, not just one. In less than six of your hours, I watched as President Adar, _my _president, was blown to bits along with almost our entire fleet. Heard the screams over the commlines as most of my friends were ripped to shreds. I've seen so much fracking death and destruction,so many cities and planets levelled to ashes, so many uncountable corpses that I guess I'm a bit calloused to it. And right now I'm trying to prevent history from repeating itself on _your_ side of the galaxy." His gaze swept the room coolly. After what he'd been through here on Earth, he wasn't expressing remorse for anything that didn't reek of wrongdoing. "Hey, if you think I'm being insensitive, then I guess you'd better get used to it for the time being. In Colonial Society, I come from the lowliest of the low—what _you'd_ call the 'wrong side of the tracks'—and I don't apologize for it. _Ever_." He shrugged, looking back at the Chief of Staff. "It gives a guy a . . . a sort of black and white perspective on things. As a result, right now I'm more concerned about the nine billion still living than the one who's dead, General. The way I see it, with the _Endeavour_ out of communications _and_ scanner range, the only way we can save Earth is to get your countries united in a military front against the Cylon Alliance, and if I have to go to Nuyuk to make that happen, then I'd better get started."

Roach frowned, studying the Colonial Warrior for a long moment. "Not bad for a first draft, Captain, but you're going to have to polish it up a bit for those high brow politicians." He smiled faintly as if it pained him. "And it's _New York_. Not Nuyuk."

A sat-phone rang shrilly, breaking the tension in the room.

The general pulled his out, snapping it open. "Roach." He listened for a few seconds, then: "Roach, zero-zero-five-two-four-six-one-zero." He waited a moment more. "Go."

Starbuck watched the lines around the man's eyes deepen as he listened to a faintly audible diatribe on the other side of the line. By the general's sudden widening of the eyes and energetic nodding, something important was being conveyed to him. Finally, after straightening his spine and offering a perfunctory "yes, sir", Roach snapped the small phone shut.

"Well?" Starbuck asked.

"President Gibson will meet you in New York, as planned, Starbuck." Roach grinned broadly. There was a burst of exclamations and murmurs from the rest, but Starbuck spoke first.

"How . . ."

"Unbeknownst to all but a _very_ select few, it seems the President decided to take alternate transportation at the last minute. He wanted to know just how deeply this conspiracy ran within his own government, and I guess he found out. He's not just another pretty face, after all," Roach let out a breath of relief. "An arrest has already been made."

"That was fast," Ryan suggested, raising his eyebrows. "Another Oswald?"

"Just shut it, Ryan!" Roach snapped. "Not now."

"Oswald?" Starbuck asked, eyes going from one to the other.

"Not important right now," Roach replied, grabbing the Colonial Warrior and ushering him out of the room as he gestured at Dickins and Hummer to follow. Ryan trailed behind them, obviously intending to accompany them, invited or not. "Let's get you gone, Captain Starbuck." Roach allowed the four men to fall in together, striding purposely ahead of them towards the airfield.

"I don't know about you guys," murmured Starbuck to the others, "but I don't like the way he said that."

"_General Roach_!"

All the men turned to see Colonel Hundal running towards them, his face red with exertion, a couple of men trailing behind him.

"Colonel?"

"_The Cylon is gone_!"

xxxxx

Iblis' low laughter didn't hold the slightest bit of amusement. He had recovered Lucifer, but _she_ had saved the American president. "You played that well, Daughter. I admit it. I'm impressed." He gazed down at the Oculus in his hand, lifting it slightly as if testing its weight.

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Ama returned with her gap-toothed smile. He smiled at her again, this time more genuinely. Apparently, her boasting had pleased him. She raised an eyebrow at him, eying the powerful orb in his grip. The gilded wrought iron glowed with an intensity that bespoke its limitless power. "Is it getting to be too much for you? I could carry it for a little while."

"I wonder . . ." he murmured, his voice seeming to echo through the cosmos. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, and then he lobbed it to her.

She caught it, even more surprised at the immense weight than she was that he had turned it over to her so freely. Why? Her hand tingled with an intensity she hadn't been prepared for as she rotated it in her hand, turning it over and over, studying it. _What the . . . ?_ She had thought it looked the same, on all sides, but unexpectedly, when she really concentrated, the imprint of her Empyrean talisman stared back at her from its core, seeing into her very soul.

She felt her body go rigid as her consciousness reached out to touch another, more ancient than all recorded history, more powerful than she could ever imagine. Her hands tingled with shock as her mouth went dry. She drew a sharp breath, feeling herself falling, falling, and falling into the infinite blackness. Images flashed through her mind unbidden. Planets. Suns. Mighty ships, greater than a thousand battlestars, dwarfing entire star systems. Terrible galaxy-shattering wars. Worlds, civilizations, whole universes, rising and falling. Creatures she had never seen before or even knew existed. Creation. The reality before that. For the first time in her life, she felt completely vulnerable. Naked. Humbled. Then as suddenly as it had gripped her, it released her, leaving her feeling spent. Her head jerked up, staring at Iblis, her eyes wide.

"Ah, yes. I thought so," Iblis said, studying her for a long moment before he continued. "For thousands of yahrens, child, the Great Powers bestowed the position of Keeper of the Oculus upon _our_ kind, Ama. I alone amongst all the multitude of them had the ability to truly wield some of that power, to harness it, to make it my own. They claim I was seduced by its power, Ama. What they fail to understand is that the Oculus . . . the Oculus chose _me_. For without darkness, the light would go unprized; without evil, goodness would have no meaning*."

"_No_," she breathed. He was lying. He _must_ be lying! He always lied! If what he was saying was true, then the Oculus was more than just an ancient and powerful treasure, it was a . . . a tangible connection to an omnipotent and sentient force, older than the cosmos . . .

"Ama, use the Oculus! See the Truth, child!" His voice seemed to echo within her. "Know I speak the truth, even if you do not want to hear it." Iblis smiled then. That particular smile could charm the vilest of serpents or the holiest of saints. "This is our rightful place in the universe, Daughter! Our destiny! _OURS!_ It was thus decreed."

She felt ill, disheartened, beaten. If what she suspected was true, then the battle between good and evil was an immortal one. _Meant_ to continue through the ages.

She had been naive to think in absolutes. Victory or defeat. Never had it occurred to her that it would go on and on in endless futility. There was no immortal paradise, no idyllic condition of everlasting peace, harmony and stability. It was unattainable. A dream.

"Why?" she murmured quietly as her faith began to crumble around her. She drew in a shuddering breath, trying to find something to sustain her, something to turn to . . .

"Do what thou wilt, my daughter. Your destiny is undeniable. Do what thou wilt."

Then a shrill noise began to build, foretelling their coming. They had not abandoned her after all. But now it seemed pointless. Too late.

"No!" protested Iblis, his ire once rising against her. "_I forbid it_!"

An energy engulfed her, filling her body and soul. Iblis' vile presence began to recede as the light consumed her.

"Take me," she murmured, giving in.

*R. S. Thomas

xxxxx

He'd been rescued, he'd been fed, he'd been medically treated, his injured and irradiated crewmates were going to be okay, and he was on a spaceship that he'd only seen the likes of in science fiction movies. _And_ he was headed home, but all Bruce Johnson could manage to feel right now was an all-consuming, burning hatred for Mark Dayton.

He closed his eyes, running a shaky hand over his unshaven face. He was in the _Endeavour_ enlisted crew's quarters, surrounded by the surviving Barstow crewmen not currently hospitalized, their conversation a hum in the background that he had all but blocked out. He forced himself to listen to them, over the vibration of the ship's engines, instead of imagining ways to avenge the death of his mother. Mark Dayton had once bounced little Bruce on his knee while drinking wine and laughing with his parents. He even had vague memories of playing hide-and-seek with Jessica forty-five years ago. Maybe that was why the betrayal of the _Endeavour_ commander was so far under his skin that it occupied his every waking moment since the traitor had re-entered his life.

"It's like taking your first ride on a double-decker bus, only to get to the upper level and find out there are no windows," Hicks, a born-and-bred Londoner, was saying, sitting at a table and thumbing through some cards that no one could make any sense of. Several other of his cohorts were sacked out on narrow bunks that made it clear that not a lot of space had been allotted for the creature comforts of the crew. "Nothing but metal walls."

"Well, they don't put windows in submarines either, for a similar reason," Scott replied with a chuckle.

"Still, wouldn't it be nice to get a better look around?" Hicks replied. "Me, I'd like to see the stars."

"Who cares about stars?" opined a third, a woman "At least we got rescued." She picked up a small device, much like a remote control for a TV. With a click a screen on one bulkhead came to life, showing the solar system slip by as they headed for Earth. "Voila. Stars."

"Always aiming to please," Hicks said, looking at his watch. "When's lunch around here?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag me to that mess hall again, Hicks," said Scott. "Why did I think that _their_ food would taste better than that freeze dried stuff WASA passes off as nutrition?"

"Hey, food is food," shot back Val. "Remember Cervantes? '_Hunger is the best sauce__.'"_

_ "_What's Cervantes? An Italian restaurant?" Scott asked, looking up.

She shook her head. "Johnson. Tell these cretins who Cervantes is."

_ "_Miguel de Cervantes. He wrote _Don Quixote__,_" Johnson replied quietly, not looking up.

_ "_Dawn Coyote?" Scott asked. "What's that?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake . . . yes, it's a nice Italian restaurant in La Mancha, Scott," Val conceded.

Johnson did look up at that. He met her eyes and smiled slightly. It felt good to connect, however briefly. Then the bitterness began eating away at him again.

"Either way, stop bitching," Val continued. "They saved our hides."

"Good point," said Scott.

"Remember," said Hicks, "the nurse did say that our taste buds might be off for a while after those treatments she gave us."

"Speaking of which, I could develop a taste for _her__,"_said Scott. "What was her name? Cassiopeia?"

"Yeah, but don't bother. I hear she's tight with their commander."

Johnson stood up.

"Where do you think you're going?" Hicks asked him.

"To the infirmary," replied Johnson. "I'm not feeling well."

xxxxx

"Do you want me to get out and push?"

Dayton let out an audible groan, slamming a fist on the console in front of him in response to Porter's germane suggestion. His face like a thundercloud, he glanced down at the now-dented console, then up at Dorado.

"Uh . . ." began Coxcoxtli, but Dayton held up a hand.

"This is _best_ speed?" he demanded of anyone brave enough to answer. "Zero point five-one C?" Although Mars was fading to a mere dot behind them, at this rate it would be a long stretch before they reached Earth. Latest ETA, eleven hours, seven minutes. Once, in another life, when such a journey would have taken eight months, Mark Dayton the astronaut would have flipped at the possibility of crossing the void between planets in just over ten hours. Now, faced with the crisis at hand, it seemed like being in a smoking old junker with the tranny stuck in first.

How one's perceptions of reality change.

"We need warp . . . light-speed, Captain, and we need it yesterday!" Impatiently, he glanced at his watch, awaiting the arrival of Apollo on the bridge, just back from Phobos.

"Yesterday. Aye, sir," the captain replied with a maddeningly calm nod, as if that was possible. "You understand that the _Clavis_ . . ."

Dayton held up a hand again, stopping the explanation before it even started. His teeth were clenched. "Is it Iblis or is it just the bloody _Clavis_?"

"Are you asking me if the ship is possessed by demons or just alien technology, Commander?" Dorado rejoined, his voice tinged with a hint of asperity. "I'm not really qualified to say, sir."

"Well, when you put it that way," Dayton muttered, blowing out a harsh breath. "What systems has it infiltrated?"

"The Main Propulsion System, obviously," Dorado replied, double-checking a readout. "Each reactor is putting out at least one hundred and five percent of its rated capacity, yet the main engines are only getting a portion of that. Also, it's breached the Primary Electrical Power System grid, Environmental Control and Life Support, Auxiliary Power Units on decks three through seven, as well as those in Alpha and Beta landing bays, Hydraulics, Caution and Warning Systems, Data Processing, main weapons batteries, all the galleys . . ."

"What bloody systems _hasn't _it . . . never mind. Damn!" Dayton exploded..

"And every one of the turbo flushes above deck six," added Dorado.

"Ah, holy son of a . . ."

Apollo walked in, a grin on his face and a spring in his step. The way he looked, if the ship's main energizers ever failed, or maybe Earth's entire electricity grid, they could just wire him up and have all the power they needed. For a second, Dayton wished he hadn't waited to hear from the young officer until after Apollo had cleared decon.

"Report, Colonel," Dayton turned to the young man.

"It's a frackin' space dock, Commander!" Apollo announced, barely holding in the grin, his colourful and uncharacteristic language in the Control Centre accenting his own jubilation. "Complete with three . . . well, I guess we would call them battlecruisers, all in various stages of completion." He looked over at Dorado. "It's like the Cyrannis Prime shipyards, only bigger! It's massive!"

Dorado snorted in amazement.

"Get outta town! You're shittin' me," Dayton replied, shaking his head in disbelief. How many times had he scoffed at Soviet astrophysicist Shklovsky's 1960s report that the "artificial satellite" was made by an advanced "Martian" race?

Porter let out a low whistle. "_Seven thousand_ year old spaceships not even out of space dock. Wonder if they're still under warrantee?"

"Porter?"

"Yeah, Mark?"

"Shut up." Dayton turned back to the colonel. "You saw them?" he asked Apollo. "You actually _saw_ them?"

"Lords, yes! There's a crater on Phobos . . ." Apollo began, holding up a data chip.

"The Stickney Crater," Dayton said instinctively, almost to himself. How many crazy rumours had abounded about the apparent grooves and grid pattern on the surface of Phobos, back in his day? How many times had NASA supposedly and "definitively" debunked those same rumours? "The biggest crater." He took the chip and slid it into the reader at his station. At once, an image of the Martian moon came up on the holo-grid.

"Actually, it's another one within that that I'm talking about. It's about two kilometrons across, Commander." He pointed to the screen as the recorded data began to roll across it, taking them on a virtual tour of the secrets that were hidden on the mysterious Phobos. Others crowded around while Apollo enthusiastically described everything he and Dietra had found.

"A self-contained world . . . just like down on Mars," Dayton mused. "How the hell did they do it?"

"I wish we could have stuck around to find out, Commander," Apollo replied. "One of the battlecruisers was entirely intact, almost as if it was ready to launch."

"You think one of them was completed?"

"It's a big assumption, I'm afraid," Apollo admitted. "But the possibilities . . ."

"Yeah," Dorado added. "In an ideal situation, we could move the crew onto the battlecruiser and let the Clavis take the _Endeavour_ wherever it wants to."

"Commandeer a seven thousand year old ship? We might get more than we bargained for," Dayton replied.

"Or a lot _less_, which might be worse," Porter added.

Dayton sighed heavily. "Apollo? Recommendations."

"The amount of time and manpower it would take to do a thorough diagnostic on the battlecruiser versus the fact that we need to get to Earth _now _. . ." He let out a breath, grimacing and shaking his head. "If we had Malus, then maybe, but without him . . ."

"Why is the solution always Malus? Didn't we get along without him before Planet 'P'?"

Either it was his imagination or the entire crew squirmed uncomfortably. He turned to the captain. "Dorado?"

"We're working on it, sir. In the meantime, I agree with the colonel. It's so damn tempting to stay and check those ships out that I can taste it, but we just don't have the time."

"I really hate to play it this way," Dayton admitted, sensing that they felt the same. "I'm going to the Science Lab to see how Ryan and Baker are coming along with Mal." He nodded at his executive officer. "You have the Bridge of this flying tortoise, Apollo. Tell Engineering to begin power economy measures at once. Try and boost propulsion and life support."

"Yes, Commander."

"And I want computer projections on our power utilization curve, and how much we'll really have when we do reach Earth."

"Yes, sir. I'll comm you if I need you, Commander," Apollo nodded.

"Providing we still have communications, that is," Dorado replied.

Dayton raked a hand through his hair, waving a hand at Porter to accompany him as he headed through the hatch and into the Core. He opened another hatch, climbing down the ladder. He stopped a moment midway down. "What do _you_ think, Jimmy?"

"It's the best we can do, Mark. They're right. Not enough manpower, not enough time."

"I suppose." He shook it off, turning his mind back to the Clavis as he resumed his descent. "You've been aboard these last hours, Jim. What about the Clavis? Aliens or demons? Espridian technology or Count Iblis?"

"Well, ET _did_ want to phone home, Mark," Porter called down to him, his tone light as he followed his friend.

"Damn you, Porter! Can the jokes! This is ser . . . Wait a minute . . ." He looked back up at the other as the lights dimmed slightly in response to his economy order. "Sorry, old buddy. That was out of line. You have a good point. You . . . you think the _Clavis_ is just trying to get back to the Espridian planet? That it has its own . . . consciousness?"

"Or a pre-programmed set of instructions we never knew were there, which have now been triggered. Either way, sure sounds a helluva better than the alternative, don't you think? A base ship possessed by Count Iblis. Personally, I'd rather not be rolling through the heavens in the Hellmobile. And it's a self-defensive mechanism when you look at it the other way. When in a potentially dangerous situation, return to home ground."

Dayton snorted, trying to wrap his brain around this newest theory. "I suppose. But how do we reverse it?"

"Maybe it will reverse itself when we go back."

"That's one hell of a big 'maybe', buster."

"Remember, the Espridians weren't a hostile people, Mark. They were explorers that believed in a global consciousness through some kind of psionic spirituality. Maybe this infiltration of our systems is just another aspect of the _Clavis_' programming. A hard-wired attempt to attain global consciousness with _us_."

"Are you actually suggesting that we pray?"

Porter shrugged.

Dayton stopped again at the bottom of the ladderwell, looking up at his friend. "Do you have _any_ idea just how totally head-up-the-wazoo crazy that sounds?"

Porter chuckled. "No crazier than you becoming the commanding officer of a stolen former Cylon Base Ship turned Colonial aircraft carrier pretending to be a Cylon Base Ship again."

"Good point."

xxxxx

Silhouetted by the rising sun, the wind moving through her hair, Jess Dayton looked absolutely beautiful, tilting her head upwards as if to receive the blessings of the heavens as she shielded her eyes with one hand. Slender, graceful, intelligent, with a steely determination, many men had tried to win her over, but had finally conceded victory when they realized she'd put no man before her career.

"I thought you were going to get some sleep, Jess," Orlov said, quietly stepping up to join her. "_Slava Bogu_, you must be exhausted after everything that has happened."

"Who can sleep, Sergei?" she replied distractedly, letting out a sigh. "With all this going on? I couldn't even if I tried."

"Then join me in a drink," he replied, producing a bottle of chilled vodka and two glasses from behind his back.

"Isn't it kind of early?" she asked with a smile, tucking a stray lock of her light brown hair behind an ear.

There were streaks of gold and even some red in her luxuriant hair. Sergei guessed it was all-natural, since she wasn't the kind of woman who would spend idle time sitting in a beauty salon. "I thought it was getting late, myself," Sergei replied, pouring her a measure and passing it to her.

"Then I suppose somewhere we must be right on time," she smiled, taking the glass and waiting politely until he poured himself a drink.

"Who is on your mind, my friend?" Orlov enquired, downing the drink in one swallow.

"My father." She paused a moment before knocking back her own drink in the traditional way. "The fact that he's alive still seems so . . . so unreal. I can't help but wonder, is he _really_ out there? For crying out loud, I was barely five when he disappeared. Will I even recognize him? Will he recognize me? Am I really going to get to see him after all this time?"

"Yes, of course," Sergei replied, holding up the bottle to her. "The only question is _when_."

Jess shook her head to the top-up. "I hate waiting."

"I know."

She turned to regard him, smiling up at him after a moment. It lit up her face, making her look carefree and years younger.

"You know me so well. You're a good friend, Sergei Makshin. Thank you."

He leaned closer, brushing his lips against her cheek. "_Every_ man with vodka is a good friend, Jessica."

She laughed. "And vodka is a good friend to every man."

"Let us drink to that!" He raised the bottle of comfort again.

xxxxx

"How in God's name do you lose a seven foot tall, glow-in-the-dark talking robot that was secured in the stockade?" Roach demanded, spittle flying from a face that was seemingly frozen in a rictus of rage. "It wasn't exactly inconspicuous, Colonel!"

"Three of my men are dead, General," Hundal reported. "It wasn't like they were playing cards and _let_ him walk out of there."

"Sounds like another inside job," Starbuck said, looking between the two American officers. "He _could_ still be on the base somewhere."

"Has anything lifted off in the last hour?" Roach demanded.

"At an _airbase_?" Hundal replied sardonically.

"Don't take that tone with me, Hundal, or I'll have you reassigned to the Thule Air Base to test out thermal underwear on the ice flows," snarled Roach. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Before or after the Cylons try to destroy Earth?" Starbuck reminded him. "I vote for after. We're going to need every man who can fly a fighter."

Roach blew out a harsh breath, taking a step back and clenching his fists. He was obviously trying to get his anger in check as he was once again left wondering just who was working for Mason. His gaze raked over Hundal. The colonel didn't flinch.

"I'll organize a search of the base and make sure the two planes that took off will be searched when they land," Hundal said, pausing before he added, "Sir".

Roach nodded curtly. "You do that, Colonel."


	42. Chapter Thirteen: Part Two

It was the usual scene when Dayton and Porter entered the science lab; Ryan and Baker were both leaning over Malus, who was placed on a workstation with his chest plate removed. Circuit panels and spare parts were strewn all around them. Two cadets and a technician seemed to be working on the data crystals and reader off to the side, with Dr. Mufti looking on in fascination, while Dietra, Lia and Jolly split their attention between both stations.

"Yeah, I was in love once," Baker was saying.

"Really?" asked Dietra, eyebrows raised.

"Sure. Oh man, she was something. You should have seen her. Purred like a kitten. Trusted her with my life. Man oh man, those curves . . . Made me feel more alive than I ever had before." The Earthman sighed wistfully. "Those were some of the best years of my life."

"So what happened?" Lia asked.

"I traded her in on a Harley when the exhaust manifold blew."

Ryan chuckled while the others stared at Baker quizzically.

"Harley?" asked Jolly.

"Not sure I want to know," Lia replied. "But it didn't sound nice."

"Making any progress, Easy Rider?" Dayton asked.

"You're right on time, Captain America," replied Ryan. "We're just getting ready to boot him up again, Mark. We're going to input some holoptics of Starbuck directly into Mal's central processors, hopefully stimulating his fairy godmother, Prince Charming and at _least _six of the seven dwarves to engage his core programming without it dying again. So far, zilch."

"Is that the technical explanation?" Porter asked, plunking himself down at a workstation and picking up some random circuit board. "I think I'm worried."

"Don't worry, Jim. Be happy," Ryan said.

"Okay, Bob," Ryan said decisively. "I'm uploading sweet memories of our fearless strike captain. Gimme the juice."

"Roger. These are the shirtless and sexy ones, right? Just him wearing his Triad shorts?"

"Nothing but the shorts and a smile. Malus especially liked those ones," Ryan replied.

"So did half of the Fleet," Lia inserted wryly.

"Do you _mind_?" Jolly asked her with a frown.

"Oh, Jolly! Starbuck's like a brother to me!" Lia laughed, defending herself.

"Yeah, me too. The better-looking more athletic brother that has his own personal goddess assigned to making his life more fun than mine could ever be," Jolly inserted, a faint smile belying the fact that he was teasing before he laughed aloud about it.

"Okay," Baker said, "here goes! I feel like Dr. Frankenstein."

"Well, you _look_ more like his monster," Porter returned.

"Yes, Master!" replied Baker, in a passable Karloff impersonation.

_Beep._

The lights in Malus' head flickered to life, strobing erratically for a few moments before finally staying lit. Then, gradually, his eyes began to glow and then oscillate. The IL sat up on the workstation, turning his head slowly from side to side as he analysed all around him.

"Mal?" Ryan asked, leaning towards him. "How are you doing there?"

The IL's head slowly turned to face the astronaut, his lights speeding up. Eerily, he said nothing.

"Cat got your tongue, Abacus Breath?" Dayton asked. "C'mon, Mal. Say something."

The IL moved quicker than any of them knew he could. Suddenly, he was on his feet, shoving Jolly aside as easily as if the big man was a child, while grabbing the warrior's weapon.

"Jolly!" Lia screamed as the lieutenant scrambled beneath a worktable, upsetting it for cover.

Laser fire erupted from the stolen Colonial pistol, as mechanized digits never meant to wield human technology rapidly fired wild bursts of energy while everyone present dived for cover, pulling their own lasers.

"Exterminate all humans! Carry out the Imperious Leader's Edict Of Termination! Obey the Imperious Leader!" Malus said dispassionately, drawing a bead on Ryan who was unarmed.

"Oh sh. . ." Paddy said, nowhere to go.

"Danger, danger, Will Robinson!" yelled Baker, reaching behind him.

Then the IL slumped forward, his lights abruptly dying.

Dayton let out a short breath, holstering his undischarged weapon and picking himself up off the floor from where he had found shelter behind a desk. Thankfully, everybody was moving and appeared unharmed. He noticed that Baker had disconnected some kind of auxiliary power source they were using to activate the Cylon. He nodded at him in approval and relief, realizing his men had put a safety measure in place, even if they hadn't deigned to mention it to their commander. "That sure went well, didn't it? Everybody okay?"

"Commander?" Technician Arcadius said a little tentatively from the other station.

Dayton turned, wincing when he saw the scorched remains of the data crystal reader as well as other debris on the workstation in front of the young man. "What about the crystals?"

"The box is destroyed, sir, but I'm not sure about the crystals. In theory, they should be more resistant to laser fire, but there's also a chance that their memory storage could be damaged. We won't know until we build an entirely new reader."

"Then get started, Arcadius."

"Yes, sir."

A moment too late a team of warriors burst into the science lab, stumbling to a confused halt as they took in the scorched surroundings and the deactivated Cylon. Apparently, the laser fire had been detected elsewhere, which was marginally comforting.

"We're okay," Dayton told them. "Go about your duties."

"Sir!" replied one of the security team. They withdrew.

"Frack," Lia said, holstering her unfired weapon and moving closer to Malus. "What _was_ that?"

"Malus' evil twin? Malus the Menace," Ryan replied, in the progress of crossing to a desk drawer and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. He guzzled it greedily directly out of the half-full bottle. "Anyone?" he asked as an afterthought, wiping some remnants from his chin. "No? Then come to Daddy." He took another long drink.

"Cylon psychosis?" Porter said. "Like on Planet 'P'?"

"Remember Iblis said that Malus had some kind of buried programming when we were in the crypt?" Baker replied. "Just before Malus shut down."

"Yes," said Jolly. "He said . . . uh, 'nested memory file six, instruction sixty-six. Execute.'"

"You think this was Iblis' doing?" Dietra asked, nodding at the IL, while taking the empty whiskey bottle from Ryan's hand. "That's enough, Paddy."

"Just steadying my nerves, me darlin'," Ryan told her with a wan smile as she tossed his empty bottle into the recycler chute. "After Morlais, I'm a little gun shy."

"Six, six, six?" said Dayton. "It couldn't be a more obvious reference if he hit us over the head with a cloven hoof. Either that or Iblis was making a joke."

"He needs to work on his stand-up routine," said Baker. "I'm not laughing."

Dayton nodded. "Me neither."

"Six, six, six?" Jolly asked, shaking his head as Arcadius put the IL back onto the table.

"Sorry," Dayton said. "It's a Biblical reference on Earth. Uh, Biblical, from _Bible_, that's like your _Book of the Word_, sort of. From the Book of Revelations: _Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six_."

"Pretty damned cryptic. _Threescore_, huh? Sounds like the beast scored a hat trick," Ryan said, still looking shaken. He opened a drawer, scowling when he didn't find what he was looking for.

"Well, if it was the holoptic of Starbuck that activated Mal into termination mode, I'm guessing this was supposed to be our boy's swan song. That smarmy bastard!" Dayton spat. When was Iblis planning on dropping _this_ one on them? When they thought they had Starbuck back safely in their fold?

"Well, what do we do _now_?" Dietra turned to their commander. "We're running out of time, sir."

As it turned out, he was all out of ideas. Luckily, Technician Arcadius wasn't quite ready to call it quits just yet. Moments later, the young man had Malus' head panel open and within another thirty centons, they were ready for a last ditch effort.

"Stand back," Paddy warned them, "phasers on stun."

Arcadius smiled as the onlookers stared at them sceptically. "This time, we're trying a different command pathway, which should just access his data banks. Maybe if I can download his last moments, after what Iblis said, I can, hopefully, extract the failure mode and correct the problem. I have also . . ." _click __". . . _disconnected the links from his motor centres to his EMA and servos, which will leave him immobile, Commander. He won't actually be reactivated."

"Good call, Arcadius," Dayton said, taking a deep breath and holding it as he waited.

"Alright, here we . . . yeah!"

". . ._ompositional patterns preserved in garnets have been shown to be a reflection of compositional zoning in the original precursor minerals and sediments. Compositional variations, here on Planet P, between and within garnet grains in schists that are virtually identical to the typical metapelites at Arooka-Shan, on the Northern Continent of Cylon, support this viewpoint. Both homogeneous and compositionally zoned garnets, even together in the same specimen, display a range of compositions that would normally reflect widely different metamorphic grade and temperature conditions during their supposed growth. Thus__ . . ."_

_Click._

"Fascinating," drawled Dayton. "The geology of Cylon, 101."

"Must be one of the reports he prepared for the folks back on Cylon for when they were picked up," said Jolly. "Only he never got to send it."

"Makes sense to me," said Dayton.

"Whatever Iblis did," said Ryan, looking down at the insensate IL, chest plate and head panels open, wires strung from his circuits to equipment on the workbench, "it's got us locked out of Mal's CPU and higher centres tighter than three virgins in a bank vault."

"Except for that once, Commander," said Arcadius, "we keep ending up inside his main data banks, instead of the central personality matrix. Something we haven't been able to localize keeps redirecting every attempt at a reboot."

"So, unless rocks are your thing, we're screwed?"

"Basically, Mark," said Ryan. "I'm beginning to think there's no way to unscrew whatever it was Iblis screwed up."

"A _screw_driver?" Baker asked.

"Alas, I'm all out of OJ," replied Ryan with a sniff. "Although, it's a helluva good idea . . ."

"We'll keep trying, Commander," said Technician Arcadius. "For right now, it's all we can do."

"What about spare circuits and stuff from the ship's original stores?" asked Dayton. "Like replacing your computer's hard drive when it goes Tango Uniform? Even Command Grade Cylons must need some maintenance and stuff, now and then."

"Uh, hard drive?" asked the tech. Dayton shook his head. "Oh, yeah. Right. Well, we have spares we might use, sir, but we know so little about how these Cylons are constructed. If we fully disconnect his har . . . central processor from his brain matrix, without knowing the exact procedure, it could lead to a total cascade failure. Every bit of data in his files could be lost."

"Including everything he's learned about the _Clavis_, right?" put in Baker.

"Almost certainly. And Malus has acquired more data on the device than all of us _put together_, sir."

"Shit!" snarled Dayton. As if there weren't enough problems. "Okay, assemble whatever replacement parts he might need." He gestured towards Mal. "Looks like we have no choice."

"Right away, sir," said Arcadius.

_Click._

_"_This is unbelievable," Dayton said, looking at Ryan. "Unbe . . ."

_". . . __n the interim, the pole of rotation has processed . . .__"_Mal began again, and then his voice went into a fast screech, running through whatever it was in microns. Then . . . de . . .de . . . de . . . _determination of the moment of inertia we now know that this planet must have a central metallic core of between 1,900 and 3,400 kilometrons in radius. With assumptions about the mantle composition __. . .__ n __. . .__ n__ . . . __nnnnn __. . .__n __. . ."_

"Sorry, sir."

"It's okay, technician." Dayton turned as Malus _clicked,_ and in a voice worthy of Carnegie Hall . . .

_"__Be My Love, for no one else can end this yearning! This need that you and you alone create! Come fill my arms, the way you fill my dreams, there'll __. . .__th-th-th-th-th__. . .__ Hand in hand, we'll find love's promised land, there will be no one but you-u-u-u, for me! E-ter-r-r-r-r-nally! If you __. . ."_

"Unbelievable," said Dayton again, shaking his head. Someone had obviously let Mal too close to the music files! They seemed to be getting nowhere fast.

_"__Control Centre to Commander Dayton.__"_

Dayton crossed to the comm unit and punched the flashing indicator. The tiny screen lit up showing Apollo with Dorado behind him.

"Dayton here. Everything's under control, Colonel."

_"__Glad to hear it, Commander. What's happening with Malus__?"_

_ Dayton frowned, looking back at the homicidal IL, now inert. "He went psychotic on us, Apollo. At this point it looks like there's no salvaging him. Whatever Iblis did, we can't undo it."_

_ Apollo nodded regrettably before replying. Like many, he'd come to rather like the peripatetic IL. "__About the power situation with the engines, sir. We think we may have a solution.__"_

_ "I'll be right there. Dayton out."_

_xxxxx_

Lauren knew she shouldn't be anywhere near it, but it was like the proverbial moth to the flame, as she stood down the street from the Manhattan apartment building watching New York's finest trying to put out the raging inferno that had consumed her home. Flames were wildly shooting out of the blown out windows in her corner apartment. Obviously, an accelerant had been used. She only hoped that her neighbours, young urban professionals with a taste for New York's nightlife, weren't home.

As usual, a crowd had gathered to hold vigil on the disaster. What was it about human nature that drew them to the gruesome harshness time and time again? People were making the appropriate horrified noises while almost everything she owned, much of it sentimental treasures accumulated from years in the field, was burnt to a crisp. She had to be tired, because all she felt was an aching hollowness, instead of any sense of loss. When this mess was finally over, she couldn't go home . . . but at least she'd have her father back.

She let out a long breath, straightening her back, then disappeared once again into the night.

xxxxx

Cassie didn't quite know what to make of it.

Johnson had been sitting in the far corner of the waiting room of the Life Station, which he, or at least the languatron, kept referring to as _"__ill harbour__",_deferring his turn for treatment each time that someone else entered the room. He was agitated, restless, but exceedingly polite each time he was approached by either her or Rhiamon. Whatever the man needed, he obviously wanted to discuss it in private; that much was clear. However, her office and her isolation rooms were being exclusively used for treatment of those with the worst cases of radion sickness.

She climbed to her feet from behind her workstation where she'd been updating the charts on the patients that she'd seen that day. Many she had discharged, but several would be returning for outpatient therapy the next day. Of course, those in need of continuous anti-radion medication, regeneration therapy for their burns, routine haematopoietic stem cell transplantation and monitoring, basic rehydration—and the one still loudly vomiting in cubicle three—were with them still. It was going to be another_ long_ shift. She'd really have to recruit some more staff. She'd even be happy to have _Hinnus_ back!

Johnson looked up at her as she approached. He had been sitting hunched over, his elbows on his knees, and one hand either tracing his features or stroking the new growth of whiskers on his jaw. His gaze flickered over her briefly before he returned his attention to the wall in front of him. He cleared his throat, but said nothing.

"What can I do for you?" Cassie asked him softly. Although she'd seen the man attack Mark at the Mars Base, upon further reflection he'd been clearly traumatized by what had happened. In fact, most of the survivors had already evinced signs of mental or emotional trauma of some sort, not unlike warriors returning from a long, hard battle.

"I'm . . . not sure," Johnson replied, sniffing humourlessly. He raked his hand through his dark, wavy hair the way that Starbuck used to do when he was upset. "I just can't stop thinking about what happened down there . . . it just keeps tearing 'round my brain, Miss, uh . . ." He shook his head before she could speak it. "God . . . it won't stop . . ." He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and rubbing them with his thumb and index finger. "Isn't it supposed to be _dark_ when you close your eyes? Why won't it go away?" He rocked himself slowly forward and back.

"What's your first name, Johnson?" Her voice was quiet, her best bedside manner voice.

He hesitated, as though he had to think about it. "Bruce. My name's Bruce."

"May I call you Bruce?"

"Yes . . ." he whispered.

"You've been through a very traumatic event, Bruce. Those symptoms you describe are a normal reaction to what you've experienced. Believe me, I've seen it more times than I can count. Warriors. Civilians caught in the crossfire."

"Then how come I'm the only one feeling this way?" He looked up at her, and she decided he looked like a lost little boy.

"You really think you're the only one that's reliving what you went through?"

He shrugged. "The others were laughing, talking about going home, talking about the food . . . I just want to . . . to _hurt_ somebody . . ."

"Yourself?"

Johnson swallowed audibly, before ducking his head and whispering something so quietly that Cassie had to lean forward, straining to hear it.

"I'm sorry, Bruce, I can't hear you," she admitted. She had to turn up the mic on her languatron. "Please . . ."

"I _know_ who sabotaged the base," he said, raising his head, tears in his eyes. "I _know_ who tried to kill us all." He wiped his face, sniffing loudly before bowing his head and rubbing his eyes once again. "I'm sorry. I think what I need right now is a priest, not a nurse."

"Are you saying that _you_ did it?" Cassie asked, a dread chill falling over her.

He looked up at her absolutely horrified. "Wh . . .oh, hell no, miss. NO!" he shook his head for emphasis. "It was Commander Chung! Then I saw him blow his brains afterwards!"

xxxxx

Like Caprica City, the American metropolis of New York City stretched on for seemingly endless kilometrons. Located on a large natural harbour, it was a mixture of wide rivers, green space, steel, glass, and concrete, some of the buildings being architecturally stunning. Starbuck could feel a strange tightness in his chest as he amplified his Wraith's night vision enhanced digital display below, getting a bird's eye view of the goings on of eleven million people jammed into this densely populated urban centre. A virtual hubbub of global commerce, finance, media, culture, art, fashion, research, education and entertainment, he could tell this was _his_ kind of city. Even though he had never before been there, he was still affected by an inexplicable nostalgia, transporting him back across the galaxy to the Colonies he had been forced to flee with the remainder of their civilization.

There _had _to be some really good gaming chanceries down there. He just _knew_ it!

After the assassination attempt on President Gibson, Roach had changed his mind. He still wanted Starbuck to take his Wraith to New York as indisputable evidence he was from another star system, but the general had chosen to come along with the others in an aircraft that Dickins had snorted something about being the grandson of the V-22 Osprey. Starbuck had been left to wonder once again when the languaphone came back with something about twenty-two birds in a V formation. It turned out that Roach suspected that the Colonial Warrior's life was in as much jeopardy as his president's. Characteristically, Starbuck had been inclined to brush aside the concern, at least until he recalled Borodin's plan to execute him in Kazakhstan. Annihilating meddlesome foreigners with diabolical Cylon tales to tell was a tried and true method of maintaining the status quo on the bureaucratic situation. And everybody on either side of the debate knew that Starbuck's testimony in front of the United Nations Security Council would be crucial to sway international opinion over to the USA and Russia's perspective.

"_Captain Starbuck, this is General Roach_."

Prior to now, Starbuck had been picking up a wide array of communication and satellite signals and had been weeding his way through them while trying to take in as much of the concentrated digital view as he could from 15,000 metrons. He'd even discovered something that Baker had referred to as the Worldwide Web, finding a wealth of information, although his grasp of written Earth speak didn't seem to be as fluent as the oral form. He'd have to mention it to Ryan when he made it back home. Before he could respond to the general, Roach continued.

"_I know we've been having_ . . ." the general cleared his throat noisily, "_difficulty_ _maintaining communications, Captain, so I must allow that you may not even be receiving this message. However, both Security at the United Nations Headquarters and New York City Air Traffic Control has just redirected us to_ _land at the East 34__th__ Street Heliport, instead of their main helipad. Do you read me, Captain_?"

Well, considering they had priority clearance to get their astrums over to the U.N. building on the double, it didn't make a lot of sense, even to a diabolical foreigner. Internal klaxons were screaming at him as he tried to read between the lines . . .

"It doesn't make sense to me either, Starbuck," Baltar said, his resplendent image suddenly appearing in top corner of his helmet's heads-up display.

Starbuck just about jumped out of his skin, grabbing for his helmet with an involuntary desire to rip it off his head. "Would you _stop_ doing that!" he snapped, adroitly putting his hand back on the stick and correcting his course variation. "Trying to give me a heart attack? You're worse than C.O.R.A."

"I think General Roach is trying to send you a coded message, Starbuck," Baltar continued, ignoring the barb. "He doesn't want you going to that alternate heliport."

"Really?" Starbuck sighed. "Never would have figured that out on my own. I guess that's why _you're_ the Being of Light."

"I sense a little sarcasm."

"Just a _little_?" The warrior paused, changing tack. "Baltar, John could tell what was happening on Terra. Do you know what's going on down there? _Is_ somebody trying to terminate me? Is Roach right?"

"_This is General Roach to Captain Starbuck. Are you receiving_? _We're changing course as directed. Do you read?_"

"Don't answer and don't change course, Starbuck. Currently, there's a rising sense of unease and panic worldwide," Baltar continued, hesitating as though he was going to add more and then thought better of it. A strange look passed over his features before he finally continued in that patented Ship of Lights way. "In a city the size of New York, that could soon lead to anarchy."

"A simple 'yes' or 'no', Baltar. _Am_ I targeted for termination?"

"There is a termination squad waiting at the 34th Street Heliport, yes. You, Captain Dickins, Technician Hummer, Graeme Ryan and General Roach are _all_ targets." For a moment, the image changed, showing a close-up on the 34th Street location. Inside, behind steel doors, several men in dark clothes waited with commsets on their heads, each heavily armed with automatic weapons. "These men are professional assassins, Starbuck. Experts in this sort of thing." The image reverted to Baltar. "So, yes. You are."

"Ah, that's more like it. Who ordered the terminations? Is it that guy, Mason?"

"I'm afraid that's all I'm at . . . at _liberty_ to say for now, Starbuck."

"If we buzz the _Statue of_, will that loosen your tongue?"

"There's a code of conduct among my kind, Starbuck."

"And I haven't cracked it yet."

Baltar smiled patiently. "You're doing well, my young friend. Stay the course."

"I always do, Baltar. Now . . . can I have my scanner back?"

The Being of Light chuckled in amusement before fading from sight. Starbuck checked the position of Roach's bird, seeing it had changed course, but was now correcting as they realized _he_ hadn't.

"_U.N. Security, this is General Roach. We have a situation. We have lost communications with Captain Starbuck. He is maintaining his initial course for the United Nations Headquarters helipad_."

"_Air traffic is too congested here, General, and security is already stretched to its limit. There is a security team awaiting you at the East 34__th__ Street Helipad to escort you safely to the U.N.. I presume if you change course, he will follow you_."

"_He's really not the following kind_," Roach replied. "_But we'll do our best_."

"So, the East 34th Street Heliport . . . where exactly is that?" Starbuck mused aloud, tapping into the Worldwide Web once again to play with that satellite imagery-mapping program he had found. Even with his atrocious spelling of the alien language, the program did its best to auto correct his attempt. Before he knew it he had road directions from his current position to where the termination squad was waiting. Now . . . if he could only _read_ them . . . but then again, maybe it didn't matter. There was an audio function.

He laughed aloud in the cockpit as a sultry female voice told him where to go . . . no, it wasn't the first time _that_ had happened. He shook his head, once more thinking of C.O.R.A. Lords, it was so tempting to buzz the termination team, and then take off for the U.N. He felt a subtle weight on his shoulders, like his conscience—Apollo— was back to tell him it was immature for the strike captain of the _Endeavour_ to be even _thinking_ that way. He'd obviously been hanging out with his friend too long. He sighed, seeing the logic, even as his reckless nature pleaded with him to ignore it. _Sagan's sake, Bucko, aren't you overdue for a little fun?_

He considered it a long moment, deciding compromise could be a viable alternative.

"_Colonial aircraft, this is Air Traffic Control. Due to air traffic congestion, you are instructed to change course_ . . ."

He ignored them. It was a good thing he had some experience as a rebel.

Following the East River, he took off ahead of Roach toward his fateful late night meeting with the Security Council. A glance at his scanner showed the other military craft turning to pursue him as Roach once again came on the air to notify U.N. Security and Air Traffic Control of the "situation". At this altitude, things seemed deceptively calm and quiet. It was just the way a Viper pilot liked it before he went into battle. It was only a couple centons later that he reached the coordinates Roach had originally given him. The U.N. building, although it was tall and thin rather than pyramidal, nonetheless impressed him, reminding him of some of the major public buildings back home. It was obviously built to impress, and despite the late hour, so said the scanner, it was full of people right now. From his display, he guessed that the "helipad" was out front at the main entrance. There was also a large green space adjacent to the U.N. properties that he briefly considered and dismissed. It wouldn't do to put anyone at risk from a Wraith dropping out of the sky. And although from 10,000 metrons and closing, it looked nearby, distances could be deceiving at that height. Contrary to security reports, air traffic didn't seem all that congested to him. Then again, maybe it was relative. He was accustomed to air combat, after all.

"Ready or not, here I come," Starbuck murmured, checking his scanner once again before beginning his vertical descent.

"_Captain, you don't have clearance to land_!" Roach half-heartedly reprimanded him. Then, "_Better follow him down. I don't want someone to shoot him by mistake._"

Well, the military transport, also with vertical landing capabilities, would take up significantly more space than his Wraith. He could see a crowd gathering below, perhaps some kind of bureaucratic welcoming party. Picking the edge of the helipad closest to what he imagined must be the front entrance, he finally set her down. He cut the engines, leaving his ship's systems on standby, pulled off his helmet and opened his canopy.

It was a vastly different air here in New York City, smelling more like Tauran smog with a hint of salt from the ocean. He stood up, glorifying in stretching out his muscles as he took a cursory look around in the well-lit area. Above him, the military transport was beginning its descent; below him five men in uniform were waiting for him, looking none too happy about his appearance. His hand instinctively reached for the holster that was conspicuous in its absence, after a career of wearing a weapon during every moment of duty. As naked as he felt without his laser, Roach had been adamant that wearing it in the United States while in public was strictly forbidden.

"Give it a good wash for me," Starbuck called down to the men with a grin as they gawked at his bird. "I'll be back for it later."

Then something slammed into him, stealing his breath as he flew backwards from the impact.

"_Sniper_!"


	43. Chapter Fourteen: Part One

Chapter Fourteen

A guy _knew_ he was in trouble when breathing was proving to be a bad idea. Pain radiated from Starbuck's core, blazing outwards and gripping him in torment as he fought to draw in a breath. It only made it worse. His body taut, his hands clawed at the searing pain, while hands mauled him, bright lights blinded him, and loud voices jumbled together unintelligibly.

"_Starbuck_! _Look at me_!" Hummer demanded.

"_Would you all just shut the hell up_!" Dickins bellowed.

The din died down a bit. Starbuck blinked against the blinding light, trying to raise him arm to shield against it, but just moving his limb exacerbated the agony. He groaned aloud, almost sobbing in frustration as he tried yet again to fill his starved lungs. It felt like a landram was parked on his chest.

"He can't catch his breath! Help me sit him up!"

Abruptly, he was pulled into an upright position, his head spinning from the sudden change in position as well as the lack of oxygen.

"Breathe, Starbuck. Just breathe, for Sagan's sake . . ." Hummer begged him, leaning close and repeating his words over and over in a litany of reassuring Colonial Standard. He squeezed the warrior's shoulder in support, holding him up on one side. "That's it."

Starbuck tried to focus on the technician's words, doing his best to suck in one rasping breath after another. Lords, but it hurt! His vision was one big blur and vaguely he wondered where he was. What the frack had happened? He wiped at his face with a trembling hand. It occurred to him that he was shirtless. On the upside, he didn't seem to be losing substantial vital fluids from anywhere that he could see, although he had a couple grazes. He glanced to his left to find that on his other side, also supporting him, was Dickins. Instinctively, he gripped the old astronaut's forearm as he tried to make sense of what had happened.

"You're doing fine, kid."

"That's it. You're doing it," Hummer praised him. "Keep it up."

"I used to breathe . . . without a . . . a cheering squad," Starbuck panted, grimacing at what it cost him as he felt a crunching sensation high in his chest. He tentatively pressed a hand against the spot, feeling the heat radiating off the battered and broken flesh. Gingerly, his fingers travelled downward, finding another raw hotspot over his solar plexus. No wonder he couldn't catch his breath. He blinked furiously, looking around. People were gathered all around him, immuring him in a sea of bodies. Bright lights and loose, dark pant legs surrounded him, pressing in closer and closer.

"And you will again," Hummer replied, studying the warrior's face as the ragged breathing became more even, less laboured. He waited another centon. "Better?"

"Than _dead_?" Starbuck asked, wincing again with the pain. "Let me think about it."

"He's better," Dickins said, smiling thinly. "That ballistic protective vest the general made you wear worked, Starbuck." The military garment lay off to the side with his discarded clothes.

He nodded, starting to feel clearer-headed as a word came back to him that had been shouted out as he felt the impact of the first projectile. _Sniper!_ He'd been shot in front of the United Nations Building. Twice in quick succession with ammunition that was powerful enough to gouge into his vest, if his minor injuries were any indication. He noticed suddenly that the field of pant legs was parting to reveal two more sets of legs striding purposely towards him. It occurred to him that he was inside the United Nations building, but he had no recollection of getting there. He must have blacked out.

"Captain Starbuck, you're looking reasonably fit, considering," General Roach said from a couple metrons above him. "Allow me to introduce you. This is Ethan Dalrymple Gibson, the fifty-second President of the United States of America."

"Oh, frack . . ." Starbuck murmured under his breath. Yeah, the image of him addressing the Security Council including the President was a neat and tidy one, but all Starbuckian things considered, it was actually a lot more typical that he'd be flat on his astrum, naked from the waist up, and hurting like a man who had gone ten rounds with a homicidal Orion Hasher when he had to suddenly present himself. "Help me up," he whispered to Hummer and Dickins, gritting his teeth as they slowly and carefully pulled him to his feet, each keeping a supportive hand on an arm until he stopped swaying. His legs felt rubbery and his torso throbbed. All in all, it was just another day on Earth.

"Captain Starbuck," the President held out his hand. "Welcome to the United States of America."

"Now this is more like how I thought it would go . . ." Starbuck said wryly, wiping his damp hand on his pants before reaching forward to grip the world leader's hand.

"The sniper has been apprehended, Captain. We got him," Roach assured him.

"Alive?" Ryan asked, from the general's other side.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Roach replied.

"Dead then," Ryan said, not surprised.

"I can't tell you how relieved we are that you're alright, Captain," President Gibson told Starbuck. "When we saw the news report from inside . . . " He paused, frowning as his eyes swept downward, studying the excoriated flesh and the deep bruising on the warrior's torso that was already declaring itself. "You _are_ alright, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," Starbuck replied. "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. President. On behalf of my people, I'd like to offer the allegiance of the Colonial Nation of Mankind. Together, I believe we can destroy this Cylon threat, sir."

"Thank you, Captain," Gibson nodded, releasing the grip. "I'm anxious to hear about your people and your experience with these Cylons, as are my peers on the Security Council."

"Earth already had its first taste of the Cylons and what they're capable of when that Raider destroyed your civilian airliner, Mr. President," Starbuck replied. "Thank the Lords, we were able to find a way to destroy that squadron over Kazahkstan."

"I understand your input was vital in that," Gibson replied with a glance at Roach.

"I guess you'd say I'm the Cylon expert here, sir," Starbuck replied unassumingly. "But somewhere out there is a massive Cylon Base Ship carrying more squadrons of Raiders, as well as weaponry capable of destroying this planet. And since two fighters escaped to report back to their commander, that same strategy might not work again."

Gibson nodded. "You need to convince our Security Council of the same, Captain. Can you do that?"

"I'll do my best," Starbuck replied. Hummer nudged him, and it hurt. "This is Captain Richard Dickins, formerly of the United States Navy, and Technician Humuhumunukunukuapua'a of the Colonial Fleet."

"Gentlemen. My sincerest apologies to you both for your treatment." After a brief moment, Gibson saluted the older man. It was due respect for any former Congressional Medal of Honour winner.

Dickens regarded the gesture impassively for a long moment. "That was a long time ago. I'm not that man anymore . . ."

"I doubt that. Just you being here tells me otherwise, Captain Dickens." Gibson didn't waver. "You're a survivor, sir."

Dickens narrowed his eyes slightly, then slowly returned the salute. Then, tentatively, the President held out his hand again to them.

Dick gripped it, using the moment to pull himself in closer. Roach bristled at the bureautician's side. "This country has gone to hell in a hand basket, Mr. President," the old astronaut said quietly. "It's a cesspool of corruption, paranoia and distrust."

"I know it must feel that way, Captain Dickins," Gibson returned, meeting the older man's eyes. "Especially with what we've put you through."

"_Captain Dickins_," Dick repeated hollowly. "Captain Dickins wants to see his wife and family, Mr. President. Especially after all those years in hell."

"Of course you do," Gibson replied sombrely, lightly taking the astronaut by the elbow and turning him around. "And they felt the same about seeing you when I spoke to them personally before I left for New York."

They were lined up as if posing for a family photo. Four middle-aged adults, seven younger adults, three children, and one mature woman. Dickins stood there mutely like a statue, trying to find some familiarity in any of them. On Earth, forty-five years had passed, and it was clear that Dickins was feeling every one of them.

"Dick?" the older woman asked, her voice brittle as she slowly approached him, almost warily. Her blonde hair had long ago turned a radiant white, and her fine wrinkles evinced a life well-lived. Her figure was petite and she was sharply dressed in a blue skirt and jacket. She held up a shaking hand, reaching out to him silently across the space that separated them, studying his face, searching for the husband she had lost and believed dead so long ago.

"Anna?" he asked brokenly, tears filling his eyes. But still he didn't move. He didn't dare believe . . .

Starbuck gave him a gentle push from behind.

A moment later, Dickins had closed the distance between them, pulling his long lost love into his arms, and holding onto her with every bit of strength he possessed. "Anna," he murmured over and over again, tears spilling down his cheeks, his frame shaking with emotion, as he caressed her silken hair with a calloused hand. "It's really you. It's really my Anna."

His wife laughed joyfully in return, tears streaming down her face while she held him tightly, as though she was afraid to let him go.

Starbuck smiled as Dickins' family surrounded the long-parted lovers. Suddenly, he thought about Lu. He had no idea where she was or if she was okay. Fleetingly he wondered if someday their own family would surround them like this . . . he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, drawing in a deep breath.

"Are you ready, Captain Starbuck?" President Gibson asked, handing him his tunic and flight jacket. "Or do you require medical treatment?"

He'd had his fill of Earth's medical treatment at Baikonur. "As Commander Dayton likes to say, Sir, 'let's get this show on the road.'"

xxxxx

"Okay, let me have it," said Dayton, looking directly at Coxcoxtli as he entered the Control Centre. Porter returned to his station.

"Since the _Clavis_ is, essentially, a sort of computer, sir, we might try and get it to reset."

"Reset. You mean, basically, crash it?"

"Crudely put, sir, but yes." He led them to a systems monitor board. "Here is a schematic, sir, of all the systems the _Clavis _is currently drawing power from. Over forty percent of everything we have. Now, we ran a sim," he showed another screen, full of equations and squiggles, "and while _we_ cannot disengage the _Clavis_ from our power, maybe we can get _it_ to."

"Like when my old computer used to louse up, you give it the 'ol three-fingered reset," said Baker.

Coxcoxtli looked at him and blinked. "Uh, well I . . . anyway, if we carry out a full ship-wide emergency powerdown—I mean everything at one go—the _Clavis _will suddenly find itself starved of any more power and shut down."

"That happened with my ex every time she lost an argument." Ryan grinned. "Sounds like sure grounds for divorce to me."

"How can you be sure it will shut down?" asked Dayton. "After all, it's sucked a lot of our power into it already."

"Well, we can't be a hundred percent sure, Commander, but we don't have many choices."

"And then?"

"Just before the power is down, we apply precisely timed circuit interrupters to the points where the _Clavis_ has integrated itself into our power grid." He pointed to several flashing spots on the schematic of the _Endeavour _where the alien device's depredations were the greatest. "Once we break its power taps, we then begin to power back up and reroute the energy flow, restoring main power to the drive and other affected systems."

"Around these junctions?" asked Dayton, looking at the schematics.

"Yes, sir. It'll work, Commander."

"You hope," he half-smiled, glancing at Porter. Surprisingly, he had a headset on, and rather than bringing up his theory about the _Clavis_ being a sentient being, he was instead staring intently at a monitor. Dayton looked back to the young man. "How long, Coxman?"

"We can be ready to cut in the circuit interrupters and do an emergency power down in under fifty centons, Commander."

"When deprived of power, the _Clavis_ may elect to shut down to conserve energy," said Dorado. "Like a computer reset, yes. After all, it sat for centuries, inert, until we found it. When we power back up, the probabilities are that it will attempt to re-integrate itself into the ship's grid at the same points as before. How long it will take for the device to realize that it has been locked out, we don't know. But, we hope that that delay will give us a window of opportunity to lock it out permanently, Commander."

"What about gravity and life-support?"

"Ship's gravity has an independent emergency power cell back-up from the refit," said Apollo. "As does the life-support."

"And your back-up plan?" asked Dayton. "In case this doesn't work?"

"It's weak. As we draw closer to the sun," shrugged the engineer, "we can feed more power from the solar arrays into the auxiliary drive. It could boost our speed by a few percent."

"And if Porter is right and this thing really does have some kind of consciousness, and we make it mad?" asked Ryan, he edged closer to the distracted Porter.

"Then hopefully we can calm it down," sighed Dayton.

"I'd recommend whiskey," Ryan advised.

"For the_ Clavis_?"

"No, for the crew."

"Make mine a double, Paddy. Okay, go for it, Coxman. Call me when you're ready."

"Sir."

"Dorado," said Dayton. The other looked at him. "Good work, Captain. Damned good idea."

"If only I'd thought of it yesterday, sir."

"Don't beat yourself up."

"_Mark_ . . ."

It was the tone of voice more than anything that made a chill run down Dayton's spine as he turned to look at Porter. His friend's face was carefully controlled, masking his emotions. It didn't bode well. _Jess? Lauren? _ "What now?"

"You'd better see this." Porter looked over to the colonel. "You too, Apollo."

Both men crossed to the station where Porter had been monitoring signals he'd picked up on Earth, most of them from the media. Porter's jaw was rigid as he adjusted the controls, getting ready to reply the data he had just viewed with sound.

It was surprisingly clear footage of the Wraith landing in front of what looked like the UN Building. The female reporter said something about Captain Starbuck addressing an emergency assembly of the UN Security Council upon the request of President Gibson. There were some "oohs" and "aahs" about the Espridian recon ship he was flying which seemed to lend credence to the fact that he was _really_ from another star system, or so she intimated. Then the file sped ahead to Starbuck standing up in the cockpit wearing that classic smile as he looked around, a spotlight on him. He looked like a superstar and his image would undoubtedly be on every major newspaper, web page and magazine by the morning. Dayton couldn't help but chuckle when the reporter started using adjectives like "dashing" and "handsome" after that as she started to talk about him like the next messiah, giving their people hope and renewing their faith when Earth's future looked bleakest.

"That's our boy," he murmured softly, surmising that Iblis' claims about Starbuck's condition had been more lies. Evidently, they'd been worried for nothing. Then they panned in for a close up, and he frowned. Were those bruises?

"He's going to want a copy of this," Apollo said.

Then abruptly, Starbuck's body arched, his head jerked back, and he was flying backwards over the side of his bird towards the ground. People began to panic and scream in the background as the reporter started to lose it on the air, raving about a "hit". Then the signal died.

Dayton heard Apollo's exhalation of disbelief beside him. Those two had been friends since the Academy, had been through thick and thin . . . Dayton's chest hitched and his throat convulsed. His only word came out plaintively. "_Jimmy_ . . ."

"That's all I can get on Starbuck, Mark," Porter replied, eyes still on his station. "I'm monitoring every frequency to find out more."

"Until we hear otherwise, he's not dead," Ryan stated, crossing his arms over his chest and coming to stand beside the commander. "He's _not_ bloody dead.

"_Star_ . . ." It was all Apollo could manage.

Dayton didn't dare look at the young warrior. Then it occurred to him: "What do you mean that's all you can get on _Starbuck_?"

"There's more," Porter replied as if he were announcing a funeral.

With the flick of a switch, another report came to life on the monitor. A building was consumed in flame, fire fighters attacking it. Dayton's chest grew unbearably tight as it was reported to be the home of LM Dayton, freelance journalist and Media Relations Advisor for WASA. So far, no bodies had been recovered and it was unknown if the controversial journalist was even in the country.

For a long moment, silence hung heavily in the Control Centre. Then Dayton groaned, catching himself on a console for support. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Mark," Ryan began, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder and gripping it hard. "A lesser man might let this beat him down, but remember, right now it's just conjecture. We don't know what's _really_ going on down there. It's all smoke and mirrors."

"Smoke and mirrors, huh?" Dayton said throatily, shrugging away from Ryan. "Are you _drunk_?"

"No, but not a bad idea . . ." Ryan said quietly, turning away.

"Keep monitoring, Jimmy," Dayton said, forcing calm over himself, the words coming out in a tortured whisper.

"I won't leave this station until I hear something, Mark. You have my word on it."

Dayton nodded.

"Paddy has a point. That looked like I was watching it in HDMI, it was so clear," Baker suddenly said, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. "What's with that?"

Porter shook his head in bemusement. "You're right, Bob. Everything else I've looked at up until now was as grainy as a prairie. It was like the signal was boosted somehow."

"What are you guys getting at?" Dayton asked, suddenly feeling old beyond his years.

"Two seemingly random signal accelerations aimed right at us . . . both of them pretty damn relevant," Porter replied. "I think it was a message."

Baker nodded his agreement.

"Who the hell . . .?" Then a cold fury began to simmer inside of the _Endeavour_ commander as logic asserted itself. "_Iblis_."

Dayton turned away, bowing his head, shaking it, raking his fingers through his hair. Now it was getting personal. "You know," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "generally it's not a good idea to mess with the family and friends of the guy who has the biggest, baddest ship in the neighbourhood of the planet." He turned around, meeting the eyes of each and every crewmember present. "What are we waiting for, people? Everybody, posts!"

xxxxx

"Hi Sis."

Jess felt two tons of weight fall off her shoulders at her sister's casual greeting over her sat-phone. She walked away to a corner of the Control Room for some privacy. "I heard . . ."

"I figured," Lauren replied. "But I wasn't anywhere near my apartment when they blew it to Queens."

"Are you okay? I was so damned worried, I . . ."

"Sure. Just tired. Getting tired of running, you know?"

She _sounded_ tired.

"Laur . . ."

"People are _dying_, Jess. Because they know me . . . tried to help . . . they got Carl, Rex, they even tried to grab _Mom_, for Christ's sake . . ." Her words trailed off.

The despair was plain. "_Lauren_ . . ."

"I have a friend in the U. N." The journalist abruptly changed the subject. "Seems your Starbuck is alive. So that's good news."

"You, uh . . . don't sound _too_ optimistic about that."

"Well, someone came within a hair's breadth of waxing him right in front of the U. N. building. I'm sure you saw the media coverage. They had someone waiting when he landed in that snazzy ship of his. Besides that, the Security Council needs nine votes to pass a resolution, providing no country exercises its veto."

"You think someone will?"

"The United Kingdom or France would be my guess. After all, they were poised to attack French Guiana." She snorted. "Hey, between us, we've pissed off over half the world, Jess. Why wouldn't they be choked?"

"But surely when they hear what Starbuck has to say . . .!" Jess protested.

"Maybe." It was said in that tone that parents use when they are merely trying to get their kids to shut up. "Look, I wanted to check in, but I have to go. I'm meeting someone."

"Who?"

"My Pulitzer."

"Your _what_?"

"I have a lead I need to check out. Love ya, sis."

_Click. _

For some reason, her sister saying those words scared the living hell out of Jess Dayton more than the Cylons.

xxxxx

An ethereal reality, apart from her own. _Utterly_ apart. Ama could understand why Starbuck—a man of dubious faith—had once been awed, frightened and simultaneously sceptical in this existence when the Great Powers had brought him and Sheba here to restore Apollo's lifeless body. She could feel the vital energy all around her, but she refused to be a part of it. It was as if she could now wall herself off from the limitlessness that had once flowed through her as naturally as her Empyrean blood.

_She resists._

_As did her father._

_We all knew this could happen._

She smiled mirthlessly, feeling a bitter joy that she was defying them, those whose great and powerful presence she could sense. They had hoped she would embrace the light as she once had. But now within her was an eternal pit of darkness, steeped in acrid disappointment and betrayal.

"_Whose_ betrayal, Ama?" John asked, suddenly beside her. His voice was calm and compassionate.

Ama sniffed in self-derision. "Perhaps betrayal is too strong a word, John. It's my own foolishness that I cannot tolerate. Why did you not tell me the truth? Why did you let Iblis reveal it to me?"

"Tell me this truth of which you speak," John coaxed her.

"That the oldest and greatest power of all may be omnipotent and omnipresent, but He is also indifferent to our misery and suffering, as He is to our joy."

"Has Iblis _really_ convinced you of that, sister?" he asked sadly. "Has he truly?"

"I _felt_ it, John," Ama told him, lifting up the Oculus still within her possession.

"_What_ did you feel?" John asked, looking mystified and a little awed. "Define it for me."

"Can anyone _truly_ define such a thing?" Ama asked, turning the Oculus over in her hand, avoiding looking too deeply into its mysteries.

"Try."

"Very well," she conceded, feeling an affinity for this being that had been mentoring her. "I felt an eternity of existence with the Almighty—the source of everything—as a casual and impartial observer." She smiled bitterly. "Everything has a balance, John. Cause and effect, goodness and evil, light and darkness, beauty and ugliness, allegiance and betrayal, victory and defeat. They co-exist in a horrifying symbiotic relationship that will go on in perpetuity."

"I don't quite understand . . ."

"I thought Iblis was the epitome of evil. A vile and despicable creature that had to be destroyed. I believed that to be my destiny. But he is just as cherished in Creation as we are. He is crucial to the balance of the universe."

John watched her silently.

"Tell me, John. Is it the Almighty's will that I join my father?"

"You're the only one who can answer that, Ama," he said quietly.

"For you know not God's will any better than I do," she said matter-of-factly. "Nobody does." Carelessly, she tossed the Oculus into the air, catching it again.

John winced at her recklessness. "I know _Iblis'_ will. And I believe you are under his spell."

"His _spell_?" she snarled. "I thought my father was evil, but he is merely fulfilling his place in the universe. Starbuck would call it 'doing his duty'!" she spat. "Isn't that a fine how-do-you-do?"

John waited.

"What _am_ I? What am I _really_?" she asked, desperate to understand.

"A gift."

"A curse!" she replied, swallowing down a burning anger as those things that had been revealed to her by the Oculus replayed in her mind. "There is so much I never understood. So much I couldn't even contemplate!"

"Most beings in the universe cannot, Ama. Do not feel as if you are alone in this. They define the Almighty as they feel comfortable perceiving Him. Words . . . concepts that they can grasp. And they are content."

"I am not!"

"I can see that," he replied. "But you alone are a child of two realms, Ama, thus allowing you to walk between dimensions, now that your spiritual energy has at last blossomed. You defy the rules as most creatures define them."

"As did my father."

"Yes."

"And the Oculus—this link with the source of _all_ power—it is merely a looking glass to the Truth. It doesn't give me any more power or ability than I already had, it merely lifts the self-imposed limitations of my mortal knowledge."

He looked surprised by that. Worried. He looked upward, seeking council . . . or possibly reassurance. For if it was true, then the Oculus did not augment Iblis' powers at all. Those powers were his to wield as he saw fit . . . once he realized that his only limitations were the ones he had unwittingly imposed upon himself.

"Ah, even the Great Powers are limited by their preconceptions." She smiled, sensing only bemusement and disbelief in the spiritual energy flowing around her. "Maybe I'm not as dim as I thought. You've been guarding the Oculus for an eternity, haven't you, John? At least since you ascended, at any rate, if that was indeed necessary with your kind. And that whole time it wasn't what you believed it was. Perhaps the Almighty has a sense of humour, after all." It pleased her more than it should have that he was now flailing in unknown territory, as she had been.

He shook his head. "It simply cannot be."

"Do you feel betrayed, John? Just a little bit?" she asked, her tone almost taunting as she turned, waving a hand to include those present. "We're all just pawns."

"No, Ama . . . we're _warriors_. For goodness. For light. For truth."

"And from the beginning of time, warriors have fought the good fight, most of them never really understanding the complexities that took them to the battlefield." She let out a deep breath. "Dying for the illusion of glory."

"And do you really think that all of this really matters to Starbuck? Or Luana? Or any of those that you protect so fiercely?" John asked her. "Stop dwelling on the celestial complexities and focus on the simple facts. If Earth is destroyed, it will mean certain extinction for an entire race of sentient beings."

"Just like the Espridians," she murmured, seeing him look up sharply. "But while their physical entities ceased to exist, their spirits did not. They are among us here."

"As are the spirits of all living beings whose organic form has withered and decayed. The mind dies not, for it is kindled with the Flame Imperishable."

"Then what does it really matter, John? Life, as we define it, is eternal. Death is only an illusion. A horizon, if you like."

"Go ask one of your fold, Ama," John counselled her. "For if you've already forgotten the answer, you need to revisit your own mortality through _them_."

xxxxx

The whole body of the royal and sacerdotal art had been hidden carefully over the centuries in the High Degrees, passed on from Adept to Adept. It often had been said that it was impossible to solve many of the enigmas contained in their historical teachings, traced back to the Ancient Ones. Much had been forgotten, lost, or possibly even misconstrued. No one really knew for certain. And now the Light Bearer, the Son of the Morning, The Illumined One himself, had arrived from the Heavens, favouring them with his august and ineffable presence, and reinforcing that they must indeed move forward toward the Light—that which is truth. Since God was obviously with them, who could then be against them?

"Are you ready, Lucifer?"

"By your command."


	44. Chapter Fourteen: Part Two

If he was being honest with himself, he'd rather face an entire Base Ship of Cylon Raiders screaming down in endless pinwheel attacks, than stand before an international Earth assembly as the representative of the Twelve Colonies of Man, his speech pivotal in deciding whether these bureauticians would let history repeat itself half a galaxy away. Starbuck's mouth was drier than a Borellian sandstorm, as he was escorted to the centre table in the Security Council Chamber, people rising to stand in some kind of presumed deference while he entered the room upon President Gibson's grandiose introduction. He'd been running through what he was going to say off and on since they'd sprung it on him at Area 51, but suddenly his mind was terrifyingly blank. Starbuck—a man who generally loved to be the centre of attention—had been suddenly struck with stage fright.

He sucked in a deep breath, grimacing at the resulting discomfort in his chest. Something in there was either broken or doing one Hades of an impression of the same. He pulled at his collar as he took his place, choosing to stand as he looked out over the sea of judgment. The room was full of people, and every one of them was currently sizing him up. Lords, what was _he_ even doing here? Why had he agreed to this insanity? He belonged in a cockpit, not in a bureaucratic arena. His heart pounded in his ears and a wave of dread rolled over him. There was always the fleeting hope that another sniper was close by. Of course, the odds weren't great, considering . . .

"The key to public speaking is knowing more about your subject than your audience, Starbuck," Baltar suddenly said from beside him. "This is our history, drilled into you from the time you were old enough to sit still and listen. You can do this."

Not a single witty retort came to mind. That said it all. With considerable effort, he swallowed the large lump threatening to cut off his airway. Maybe if he was Apollo . . . or even Boomer. Maybe if he hadn't been shot in the last ten centons. Maybe if he hadn't skipped out of Sitting Still and Listening 101. . .

"Starbuck, I will start you off. Just repeat my words," Baltar coaxed him. "Nobody will know."

Starbuck sucked in another deep breath, considering that. A strange calmness began to sweep over him, despite a mongload of misgivings. The most despised traitor in Colonial history would be giving a speech to try and convince these Earth bureauticians to recognize a fictitious allegiant treaty with the Cylons for what it truly was. Verbatim, Starbuck would repeat it. He could just imagine Commander Adama's face, if he ever heard about this one . . . Taking a deep breath, and doing his best to trust implicitly that the newly evolved Ship of Lights being could somehow salvage this situation, he waited for Baltar to begin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Leaders of Earth . . ." Baltar said quietly in his ear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Leaders of Earth," Starbuck merely nodded at them, well aware that he lacked the diplomacy and social graces of a bureautician. President Gibson nodded his encouragement. At least that was one vote he could count on. Baltar continued on, Starbuck following: "*More than a thousand of your years ago, our war with the Cylons began abruptly—without warning, without even a formal declaration that war was to be." Behind and above him on the massive holo-screen that had lowered into position blocking out a mural, images of both Cylons and their fighters sprang to life, recovered from recent Earth data and others dating back more than a centi-yahren. Muted comments could be heard across the huge room, stuffed to capacity with observers. He ignored them, focussing on the people that he needed to make an impression on. Like the very attractive brunette two people down on his right.

"Like pirates, showing no threats and cowering beneath false colours, the Cylons opened fire on our merchant ships without even an invocation to heave to, or a cautionary blast from a laser cannon. They came to destroy, and they destroyed our ships by the thousands. A fleet of their warships headed for our Twelve Worlds —each ship armed with mega-pulsars that could destroy entire cities—much like the one now nearing Earth." Here, an image of the imposing _Endeavour_ came up on the display, retrieved from WASA's telemetry at Mars. The same class Base Ship, these people didn't need to know it wasn't the _Ravager_. A few gasped in surprise at her firepower. "Arrogant beings that they were, the Cylons did not anticipate that we would be ready for them. We _were_ ready for them and for the next thousand years we continued in battle readiness."

"*But a thousand years is a long time, even when the duration of some years is compressed by the time twisting of space travel. We forgot the extent of Cylon treachery. Instead, we became slaves to our own myths. We figured we could not be subjugated, we were a resourceful people who loved freedom, we welcomed adventure." He could see several of those present nodding in agreement, identifying with Baltar's words as they listened to the translation through their earphones. "When the Cylons offered peace just as abruptly as they had initiated hostilities, we had forgotten that they were not to be trusted. We embarked on a peace mission with hope, with the expectation that ten centuries of unceasing warfare would finally be ended. Peaceably we had explored myriad diverse worlds of the universe, peaceably we had established the system of twelve worlds that became our main colonies, peaceably we would live again." He sighed, getting an out of place mental image of Commander Adama sitting in his quarters, dictating for his personal journal. "Joy grew in our hearts. Those of us whose lives had been totally committed to the war should have known better, should have perceived that the joy in our hearts had a strategic significance. The more we moved away from the facts that formed the structure of our design, the more we became like the bureauticians who governed us, men and women who had so misunderstood the words of the powerful when they smilingly offered peace."

Then Baltar's commentary stopped. Starbuck hesitated, waiting, trying to get over the mental image of "smiling" Cylons. Malus came to mind, weirdly enough.

"You're the only one who noticed," Baltar said wryly, leaning closer. "You have the floor now, Starbuck. Tell them what the Cylons will do to them. Make them believe it."

The dramatic pause seemed effective as those present leaned forward in anticipation, their eyes locked on him. The bureaucratic arena was a lot like a card game. Strategy, self-control, reading your opponents. He _could_ do this.

"The Cylons have an Edict of Extermination," Starbuck told them. "It's a commitment to eradicate all humanoids. That edict is one thousand years old." He hesitated. "Yes, that's a long time. And people change. But Cylons _don't_."

"About two years ago, the Cylon Imperious Leader managed to convince our Quorum of the Twelve that they were tired of war. That they truly wanted peace, were prepared to sue for it, in fact. After a millennium of war, our leaders, worn down by endless conflict, decided to listen. Ultimately, we were betrayed by one of our own, but the complacency of our Council, our bureaucracy, sealed our fate. On the day the Armistice was to be signed, in an ambush the Cylons destroyed our military fleet, and then annihilated our undefended worlds, taking no prisoners. A single battlestar, the _Galactica,_ was all that survived, leading our refugees, packed into some two hundred and twenty-odd civilian ships, from our battle-ravaged worlds. That's less than one _thousandth_ of a percent of our population that survived. Just a fraction of those currently thriving in this city."

He looked around, watching their reactions, letting his words sink in. "Now the Cylons are here in _your_ star system. I was told that some of you entertain the idea that they want peace, even after seeing the aftermath of the unprovoked attack on a defenceless civilian airliner. It was a brutal snuffing out of hundreds of innocent lives, simply because they were human. Take it from a guy who knows, Cylons aren't interested in peace. They only want the complete annihilation of the human race, and they won't stop until they achieve it." Naked fear stared back at him from one or two of them. He needed to change that, to shift their way of thinking . . .

"Here on Earth is the last branch of humanity, a beacon of hope shining across the galaxy for _my_ people. If we stand together, we can beat them, that I promise you. We proved that over Kazakhstan just hours ago, wiping out almost an entire squadron of their fighters when their advance force struck us." Several of them nodded, reassured that they indeed had a chance.

"Now I realize I've probably raised far more questions than I've answered, and I swear on my honour as a Colonial Warrior that we'll provide those explanations in due time, given the chance. But for now, there's a Cylon Base Ship heading this way, its sole intent to exterminate every living thing on this planet. We have to act _now_ to coordinate our defences, to prepare our forces, to brief each and every pilot that will be going into combat. I guess about all I can add at this point is . . . don't let the senseless tragedy of the Colonial holocaust be repeated here on Earth. Ladies and gentlemen of the United Nations Security Council, the fate of humanity is in your hands, and . . ."

An obvious sceptic looked back at him with a purposeful disdain, as Starbuck's words of conclusion trailed off into contemplation. Until this point, the young strike captain had felt fairly confident about both his speech, and his ability to sway consensus to his side. He could only hope that this man didn't hold what Gibson had called "veto power", when the time came to vote. Starbuck leaned on the table heavily for a moment, exhaustion, discomfort and desperation wearing on him. How could he get through to a guy whose head was as thick and ungiving as condensed tylinium? Someone whose mind was made up before Starbuck had even started speaking. If classic diplomacy didn't work, what then?

"Lords' sake, honoured members . . ." he began a final appeal to them, straightening up and raking a hand through his hair. As if on cue, the holo-screen behind them showed the lone Cylon Raider beginning its attack on the Earth Supersonic jet. A nail-biting moment later, the disaster was complete as the jet exploded in a fiery ball, taking its three hundred passengers with it. Once again, he waited as Security Council Member Lunkhead sat in silence, ruminating dispassionately. It made him wish he could get the guy up there, closer to the action. Strap _him_ onto the nose of a fighter, next to Lucifer! It wasn't the first time he'd thought that about a bureautician. It likely wouldn't be the last.

Again his gaze moved around those gathered, willing them to listen, to understand, while they waited for his closing statement. Whatever he said next would decide how they played their hands. He noticed Baltar sitting at the opposite end of the table, nodding his approval. "You alone hold the power that will decide whether we lead Earth's forces to victory over the Cylons . . . or frack this up completely."

There was a long silence, and then President Gibson stood. "Captain Starbuck. I'd like to thank you for your candidness on behalf of the United Nations Security Council. If anybody here was unsure of who the Cylons are, or what they represent to the people of Earth, it's more than clear to them now."

"Yes, thank you, Captain," the dark beauty rose to her feet, inclining her head towards him. As tall as himself, she had black, almond-shaped eyes in a face of classic proportions, lustrous black hair that cascaded in waves down her shoulders, and a set of curves that even God would have trouble improving on. He didn't know what country she was from, unable to read what the letters GREECE on the nameplate meant, but he was sure he'd like it there.

"Anything I can do to be of service," he hastily replied to her with a smile, as most of the others followed suit. Lunkhead didn't, he noticed.

An aide came towards Starbuck, an arm outreached, motioning for him to follow. The man looked like a pit-taurus in a simian suit, his neck thick and his muscles bulging through his dark suit of clothes. He smiled innocuously. "This way, Captain, if you'd follow me, sir."

"Sure," Starbuck said, letting out a breath, more than a little relieved it was over. He crossed through the chamber, not really listening to the murmuring around him as people discussed his speech.

_His_ speech.

Lords sake, what was the universe coming to?

Following the aide, he rounded the corner, heading down the corridor to where he would wait with the others until he heard the results of the council's deliberations. In short order, they should be heading to an airbase, coordinating their defences and starting the pilots' briefings. He slowed his pace, getting a niggling idea that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"This way, Captain," the aide said, waving a hand down the hall, a faint note of urgency in his tone.

"Easy, pal, keep your shor. . ." Inexplicably drawn, Starbuck turned around, just in time to see an IL-class Cylon dressed in a shiny golden robe enter the Security Council chambers. _"__Holy frack!__"_he swore aloud, instinctively reaching for his weapon, his hand grasping air instead of reassuring metal.

Then the aide body checked him through an open door.

*Adapted from _Battlestar Galactica_—by Glen A Larson and Robert Thurston

xxxxx

It was enough to drive a guy to drink, Paddy told himself, taking another swig from his bottle, and then chuckling as he realized he couldn't remember what "it" was. After all, there was so much to choose from, and in typical Ryan fashion he'd rather not dwell on any of it. Heck, if he spent too much time dwelling on negative stuff, he might just end up drinking too much!

He put his feet up on Starbuck's desk, tipping himself comfortably back in the chair, reasonably sure that nobody would bother him in here. After all, who _wanted_ to go into an MIA senior officer's office anyway? One leg fell heavily to the floor, knocking over a pile of crap alongside it that had been precariously piled on the desk. Not too surprisingly, his other leg followed the first.

"Dagnammit!" he mumbled, staring resentfully at the fallen items, attached to him or otherwise. Gravity was a force of nature that was mightier than he could ever be . . . thus decided, he drained the rest of the asteroid whiskey from the bottle and left it to the cosmos to decide whether or not to set Starbuck's office straight.

He let out a loud belch, leaning forward and using his momentum to help himself out of the chair. Somewhere around here would be Starbuck's bottle of ambrosa. He knew the strike captain had one because the kid had seen season one of _Baa Baa Blacksheep,_ and had picked up on some of the more important aspects of command from Major "Pappy" Boyington himself. Ryan began searching through drawers and cabinets, intent on finding it.

"Why?"

"Why?" Ryan echoed. It was only the alcoholic haze that had prevented him from jumping out of his skin.

"Why are you drinking, Paddy-Ryan?" she asked again.

"As the saying goes, it's either a bottle in front of me or a frontal lobotomy, at this point, Ama," he replied. "What are you doing here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be Iblis' hostage? Not here watching me get drunk," he added, getting down on his knees and rifling through a drawer without even looking at her. "Go away."

"I cannot."

"Try wiggling your nose. It always worked on _Bewitched_." He tossed a few items over his shoulders, listening to them crash on the deck as he continued to search.

Ama crossed her arms over her chest, sighing in resignation. "It's on the shelf. Inside the Regulation Manual."

"Inside? Ah!" Paddy grinned, climbing to his feet and running a finger over a line of books on the indicated shelf. He blinked, trying to focus on print that suddenly looked as though it was in a different language. Oh, that's right . . . He jerkily pulled out the Manual, chuckling when he opened it to find it had been hollowed out, a bottle of questionable vintage ambrosa inserted inside. "Good to know he finally found a use for it."

"It was a gift from Boomer when Starbuck was promoted."

"Always liked good ole Boomer," Paddy replied, fingering the bottle and putting the manual aside. He pulled out the cork, taking a long, blissful sniff, followed by one very satisfying swig.

"How does it taste?"

"Didn't r_e_ally notice," he admitted, finally looking at her. She was carrying the Oculus.

"Isn't that a bad sign?" she asked. "When you don't taste it?"

"The bad signs usually have sinister music accompanying them. You know, spooky organ music. Evil laughter in the background." He cocked his head to the side, listening. "Nope. Must be okay."

"Maybe I should join you?" she nodded at the bottle. "I've been known to enjoy a wee dram."

He frowned, quirking an eyebrow at her. He held out the bottle. "I should have offered. Sorry, darlin'."

"Quite alright," Ama replied, taking the proffered bottle and taking a seat in the chair. "Do you really always drink this much, Paddy-Ryan?"

"Not usually. It interferes with my suffering."

She took a swig, looking at him with a twinkle in her eye, drinking from the bottle like he had done. Somehow it didn't seem the least bit inappropriate with the old broad. Then she handed it back to him.

"I know you like a drink, dear heart, but usually you wait until the crisis is over." She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "What's going through that thick skull of yours, Paddy-Ryan?"

Ryan tapped his temple. "As little as possible. I have it pleasantly numbed, Ama. I'm as good as gold."

"You're not going to be much use to Mark-Dayton that way."

"Mark's a big boy, and doesn't need me. He'll be alright."

"I would ask if you've lost your faith . . . but I know you're not that way inclined."

Ryan let out another belch. "Life has no meaning other than what one makes of it, Ama." He smiled. "It's . . . freeing once you realize it."

"Then why are you hiding in a bottle of ambrosa?"

Paddy smiled, holding up the bottle. "This is freeing, too."

"There appears to be scant room in that bottle for freedom."

He tapped his temple again. "This is where freedom lives. Freedom or imprisonment."

"'Life has no meaning other than what one makes of it'," she repeated, seeming to consider his words for a long moment. She looked nonplussed by the idea. "You really believe that?"

"Yeah. Problem is . . . I've never been a great one for making something of my life." His words trailed off as he turned away from a lifetime of bittersweet memories.

"Then why go on?"

That got his attention. "_What_?" he asked her incredulously.

"You heard me."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No."

"Shit, Ama, what did he _do_ to you?" Ryan asked, crossing to where she sat. He kneeled down in front of her, putting the bottle on the desk and taking her hands, prying them off the Oculus. They were cold. Deathly cold. "Those are about the _last_ words I ever expected to come out of _your_ mouth."

She glanced at the bottle.

"Do you know how many people are counting on you, Ama?" Ryan asked her, innately rubbing the warmth back into her hands. The Oculus fell off her lap, hitting the deck with a loud crash. He ignored it, but she stared at it long and hard. "How many people _believe_ in you?"

She smiled, looking back at him. "Do _you_ believe in me, Paddy-Ryan?"

"Yes," he nodded, not hesitating.

"And what do you believe I _am_?" she asked, looking amused. "Honestly."

"Some freakish old woman with a lousy dental plan and a bad hairdresser who is part human and part . . . part something else."

"Something else?"

"Some kind of advanced being, I suppose. Maybe from another world, maybe from another dimension. Kinda like those Espridians that Malus was so bloody fond of. Maybe what people on my planet believe are angels. Just what _does_ your kind call themselves, Ama?"

"The foolhardy."

"No." Ryan shook his head. "Not you. I've never met a kinder, wiser, more selfless woman than you."

"Shall we discuss your track record with women until you met our dear Dietra?" she asked wryly, a hint of a smile creeping up one corner of her mouth.

"I'd rather not." He stood up, pulling her with him. "Life is what you make of it, Ama. Don't you dare give up. Whatever happened with Iblis, whatever he told you . . ."

"_Showed_ me." She shivered. "Do you want to know?"

"I _already_ know. Life is for living. Beyond that . . . " he shrugged. "We fight with everything we have to _keep_ on living for a reason, Ama."

She nodded towards the bottle. "And what part of the fight is that?"

"It's just a coping mechanism. I'm not saying it's a good one, and it plays shit with the liver, but it _is_ a coping mechanism. My name is Paddy Ryan, and I'm an alcoholic. I haven't abused in almost one full minute, and I'm so proud. See you at the bar after the meeting."

"Your friends need you, Paddy-Ryan."

"And _yours_ need you too, Ama."

"Then where do we go from here?"

"Back into the fray?"

"I suppose we do."

He paused, considering her. "Why me, Ama? Why did you come to _me_? Of _all_ people."

"There is so much we can all learn from those who do not share our core beliefs. Yet tragically by nature, we shy away from those affiliations and conversations, unless it is in the nature of argument. Rarely do we want to listen to opposing viewpoints to learn, instead we intend to debate. To learn is to grow, Paddy-Ryan. Stagnation is our enemy. I needed to know where you draw _your_ strength from . . . as I might find some there myself."

He glanced at the ambrosa bottle.

"No, dear heart." She shook her head, tapping him on the chest. "This is where your strength is. It's all heart. It's your faith in humanity, in your fellow man, in your friends, that both inspires and humbles me."

He felt tears pricking his eyes at the generosity of her statement. "Let's murderize them, Ama. Let's give them hell."

She smiled at him; it was truly inspiring. "Yes, let's."

xxxxx

It wasn't often that Cassiopeia visited the Control Centre. Unless there was a crisis unfolding, she rarely had reason to. So, Dayton realized, this had to be important. He crossed the room where preparations were still being made to free them from the energy-draining _Clavis_.

"Sorry to disturb you, Commander," she offered, "but I've discovered something you probably should know about. Can we speak in your office?"

"Of course." He nodded, turning around. "Colonel Apollo, I'll be back in a jiffy."

"In a . . . yes, sir."

With a wry smile, Dayton took Cassie's arm, leading her through the hatch and along the corridor until they reached the meagre room he had claimed as his office. "How are the Barstow crew doing?"

"All those suffering from Radion Poisoning are responding well, Mark," she replied, stepping inside and waiting as he closed the hatch. "Certainly better than I expected, given how long they went without treatment. But I really wanted to discuss Bruce Johnson with you."

"Brucey," Dayton murmured, his memories jogged of a summer day about a year before that ill-fated launch of the _Endeavour _Space Shuttle. "You know, Cassiopeia, the last time I saw that kid I was giving him airplane rides in my backyard . . ." He saw her quizzical look. "You take the kids by the hands and swing them around in a circle until they're airborne."

Cassie smiled. "Orbitals."

Dayton sniffed in amusement. They weren't so different half a galaxy away.

"Mark, I asked for Johnson's permission to disclose this to you. I had to from a confidentiality perspective, since he's my patient. You understand."

"Of course. Go on."

"He says that it was Commander Chung that sabotaged Barstow Base. Johnson also said he saw the commander commit suicide after he realized he'd been discovered."

Dayton frowned sceptically. "That's quite the allegation."

"I know what you're thinking, Mark. The man attacked you, not only physically, but also verbally. But just imagine his mental state at the time. Not only did he think he was going to die in some crumbling cave on Mars, but he had just experienced the disaster at the base, as well as the betrayal of his superior officer, add to that that he'd seen a man commit suicide, and suddenly his deceased mother's long-dead friend from over forty of his yahrens ago shows up . . ."

"I get your drift. Not a good day," Dayton conceded.

"Thank you for that, Commander Understatement."

Dayton chuckled, reaching out for Cassie and pulling her against him tightly. He sighed, breathing in the enchanting fragrance in her hair as her hands slipped casually around his waist. It was rejuvenating; he hadn't realized how much he needed it. Finally, he stood back to look into those stunning blue eyes. "Recommendations, Med Tech Cassiopeia?"

"I'm treating him for Combat Stress Reaction, Mark. It's a classic case, I'm afraid. Almost right out of a module." She combed her fingers through the back of his grey hair, playing with it. "You know, a kind word or two from you wouldn't hurt. After talking to Bruce, I had the feeling that he reacted so strongly towards you because he felt so betrayed as a child. It might help him to understand how the _Endeavour_ disappeared, and that you had no control over what happened."

"If you think it will help. His mother was a good friend, after all. I'll talk to Curtis, as well. He should know." He brushed a stray lock of her hair back from her cheek, lightly stroking her cheek. "Is that your _only_ recommendation, Cassiopeia?" he asked.

"Well," she replied, "I thought _you_ might want to talk about your daughter, Lauren, and Starbuck."

He raised his eyebrows, feeling blindsided as fear and uncertainty over his daughter and the young man who was like a son to him hit him anew. "News travels fast."

"Paddy told me."

"I see." Should _he_ have told her about Starbuck? Confided in her about Lauren? Suddenly, he was unsure. "I . . ."

"It must be very . . ."

_Beep!_

Cassie frowned, unfolding her arms slowly from around his neck. "Or it could wait."

"Sorry, sweetheart. Duty calls," he told her, reaching for the telecom, barely noticing the strange look that passed over her features. "Dayton."

"_Commander, Ensign Luana is cleared to land in Alpha Bay_," Dorado reported over the small screen. "_We've delayed shutdown until she sets down_."

"Did she locate the _Ravager_?"

"_She sure did_ . . . " He looked away, cocking his head as if listening to a report, but Dayton couldn't catch it. " _About that, Commander_ . . ." Dorado started.

"Captain?"

"_Commander, Apollo here_," the colonel interjected. "_We just picked up the _Ravager_ on the very edge of scanner range. She's heading towards Earth at sublight-speed. If she sees us, sir, in this shape . . .__"_ The Clavis had compromised every vital system necessary for combat, including weaponry, propulsion, life support . . .

"We're toast," Dayton replied, with a glance at his lady.

"_If we don't do something soon, sir, we'll be _burnt_ toast_," Apollo added._ There had once been a discussion of "toast" and all its implications on Planet 'P'. _

"Her precise speed, Colonel?"

"_Ah __. . .__ zero point five one c, sir.__"_

_"_Understood. Apollo, tell the landing bay to skip all touchdown procedures, and Lu to haul ass and to report to the Bridge when she lands. Prepare to shutdown and reboot this baby. All crew better be in grav boots as a precaution, and everything else battened down. I want all systems go before that ugly bucket of bolts gets within weapons range."

"_Sir, Lu isn't on final approach_."

Dayton paused, having not considered that. If they had to wait for the ensign to board, the Cylons might just notice them moseying their way across the solar system at slightly-faster-than-crippled-tortoise-in-a-wheelchair speed. "How long?"

"_Five centons_."

"How's her fuel?"

"_Good enough_," confirmed Apollo. "_Order the Wraith to full ECM_?"

"Affirmative. Then power down ASAP, Colonel."

"_It's gonna be close, Commander_. "

"I _like_ it close, Colonel. Dayton out."

xxxxx

"Director, it's Hayashi," Miirski reported from her station at Baikonur Space Centre. "On Channel Four."

It took Jess a few seconds to focus, her mind still on her sister. She had confided in Surkov, and Alexei had promised to speak to General Roach. They needed to pull Lauren out of the field, to bring her home safely. Suddenly, being on the opposite side of the globe was too damned far away. "Put him on!"

"_Jess, we have telemetry in from our Sentinel Six probe showing what we think is a Cylon Base Ship_," the Flight Director from Guiana Space Centre reported.

"You _think. _How can you not be certain?"

"_It's moving so goddamned fast, Jess, it's hard to say. Sending telemetry via satellite_."

"How fast?" asked Jess.

"_Best estimate . . . about half the speed of light. Maybe a little more. Hard to be precise, our stuff wasn't designed to track things at these velocities.__"_

"Any visuals?"

_"__Sending them now, Jess.__"_

"Put it up," Orlov ordered a technician as the data came in. "Main screen."  
In real time, the image appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. When frozen and digitally enhanced, the imposing killer was captured on screen for a positive identification.

"Heading this way, Atsuo?" Jess asked.

"_Yes_."

"Which one is it?" she asked the others, fearing the worst. "Ours or theirs?"

"Seeker Five picked up some activity near Phobos, and we saw the _Endeavour_ Base Ship leave Mars' orbit. She wasn't moving anywhere near as fast as this ship," Orlov reminded her.

"I was afraid you were going to say that." She took a deep breath. "Best ETA?"

"It's a guess, considering either ship could alter speeds, but at this point we'd estimate that the Cylons will reach Earth eight hours and thirty-three minutes before the _Endeavour,__"_reported Miirski.

"Get Surkov down here. Now."

xxxxx

Starbuck hit the floor hard, innately reverting to his training and rolling on impact, then jumped to his feet again. He pivoted, turning back to face the "aide" that had just hit him like a landram, forcing him into this room when he'd moved to intercept Lucifer.

They weren't alone.

Three other men wearing identical dark clothing flanked their cohort, facing Starbuck like a wall of aggression in the small room outfitted meagrely with a table and several chairs. Several large windows were overlooking the darkened river outside. The warrior rocked on the balls of his feet, stopping his forward momentum, realizing that his first instinct to grab the "aide" and shove his fist down his throat had suddenly become a bad plan.

"You have the wrong guy," he told them, taking a step back and raising his hands conciliatorily before him, hoping this was a misunderstanding. "I'm the one here to _help_ save the planet. You're looking for the Cylon . . . about two and a half metrons tall, wearing a shiny gold robe, head flashing like a firefly, wants to exterminate mankind. You can't miss him." He nodded at the now closed door, praying that a sudden look of dawning realization would come over each ugly face in front of him. It didn't. "In fact, I'm sure I just saw him about to enter the Security Council chamber."

"President Gibson made a miscalculation bringing you here, Captain," one man sneered. "This is _international_ territory, and since 2050, the United Nations Headquarters has operated solely under Universal Law."

"Sorry, but I'm from out of town so I'm a little . . . uh, unsure of how things work around here. Who's calling the shots, exactly?" he asked, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the details he hadn't noticed until now.

"The Honourable Samael Asar, Secretary-General of the UN."

"Honourable, huh? I'm getting the idea that word translates a little differently here on Earth."

His internal klaxon was screaming at him to get out. Starbuck knew he was on the second or third floor, but by the looks of the windows, he'd never be able to break through them without a pulse rifle. He looked around again, noticing a wetbar in the corner. _What the_ . . . He took a couple steps, clearing the end of the table to get a better look. A figure lay there. Long blonde hair wrapped around her neck, tongue sticking out between her lips, her blouse ripped, the swells of her abused breasts spilling out, a short skirt riding up her slender hips leaving her exposed . . . her skin deathly pale. He suddenly felt sick. "You mong-raking Borays!"

"So they like it rough where you're from, huh?" the aide said, leering in the woman's direction. "The public isn't too understanding about brutal attacks and murder. The penalties can be quite. . ."

"Severe?" asked another thug, laughing softly.

"Yeah. Severe. That's the word. And after the media puts the proper spin on things, they'll understand why you were shot dead when we found you ravaging this poor young woman. From hero to monster. Oh, the gossip rags are gonna love this." He smiled despicably as he reached inside his jacket and sneered at Starbuck. "You sick bastard."


	45. Chapter Fifteen: Part One

Chapter Fifteen

It was a set up.

Rage consumed Starbuck at the sick and twisted picture they were trying to paint of him as a murderer and defiler of young women. Obviously, they moved quickly, putting a secondary plan in place when their termination attempt on him had failed. Their efficiency scared him more than he'd like to admit. Catching them by surprise, he swung around as he reached for a chair. He picked it up with a roar, swinging it laterally and downward into the nearest goon. With a grunt of pain, the man smashed into two of his cohorts, the three of them crashing to the floor, while the fourth danced out of the way. There was a rewarding streak of blood on one man's face. He didn't get up.

"Kill him!" someone yelled.

Under the circumstances, to Starbuck it seemed like a damned good idea.

Starbuck threw himself on the fourth man, tackling him to the ground. A weapon went skittering across the polished floor, out of reach. Starbuck pushed himself up for leverage, pulling the man up by the collar and bouncing his head off the glossy floor a couple of times. He noted with an almost professional detachment that the goon's eyes were rolling back into his skull. He dropped him, gasping as he spied a weapon pointing his way. He dived to the right, just as the muzzle flashed, the shot skimming his left arm.

Then the door burst open, crashing into the would-be hitman, hurling him forward. The timing couldn't have been better.

"Freeze!" General Roach barked as he swept the room with his weapon. "Anybody moves and I'll blow his goddamned head off!"

The man who'd been clobbered by the door, pivoted around, his weapon in his hands. At the same time, his cohort reached inside his jacket.

The general fired twice at each assassin in quick succession, double-tapping both. They went down with a thud. Then he stepped further inside the room, his eyes narrowed as he examined it carefully for surveillance measures.

"Holy frack," Starbuck breathed, feeling as though he was trapped in some kind of nightmare. The two men he had incapacitated were still out cold. The other two had to be dead. And the young woman . . . from the looks of her she'd been dead before he had started his speech to the Security Council. He shook his head in anger and horror, simultaneously grimacing at the aches and pains he was taking stock of.

Grae Ryan, Dickins and Hummer exploded into the room.

"Starbuck! Are you okay?" Dickins asked, leaning down to pick up a stray weapon as he made his way over to the Colonial Warrior. "Geez, kid, saving you is getting to be a full time job! This keeps up and I'll have to fill out a W-4."

"A what . . .? What the frack is going on, Dickins?" Starbuck returned sitting up, his hand pressed against his left arm where it stung like Hades. A warm trickle of blood told the woebegone tale of another near miss. "I thought . . ."

"Not here, Starbuck." The old astronaut reached down, pulling Starbuck to his feet. "We have to get back on American soil. Now."

"I thought we were _on_ American soil," he said.

"So did I," replied the Earthman. "But no longer."

xxxxx

"Esteemed members, ladies and gentlemen of the Security Council, I appreciate this opportunity to set the record straight. In particular, I'd like to thank the Honourable Samael Asar, Secretary-General of your prestigious United Nations." Lucifer bowed politely before the human assembly, his once-ratty robes now replaced and utterly immaculate. "Not all of your kind have been so generous, you see. Some of you may not be aware that I have been trying to address you for two of your Earth months." A few heads rose sharply at that. While they had been looking at him curiously before, now he had their rapt attention, not just because of what he _was,_ but because of what he was _saying_.

"I came to Earth as an advance envoy to form an alliance with your people and warn you of the inevitable arrival of Colonial Warriors from across the star system. They offer you peace, yet mean to rape your world of its resources and enslave your people, as they once did mine far beyond the heavens." Disbelief and shock rocked the room.

"For two months, I sought your audience, and for two months I was detained and partly dissected by the Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency at their Armstrong Lunar Base. I warned them that soon my mothership would rendezvous with me, and that their unfounded suspicions and my resulting reprehensible treatment would be viewed negatively. Finally, fearing reprisals, they decided to move me to Earth, to _hide_ me as it were." He paused. "How do you hide a being that looks like myself? I spent an entire week in the lighting section at Macy's wearing a lampshade." A few smiled.

"Something else you may not know, honourable members, is that three Cylon Raiders, one of our smaller craft for operating inside a planetary atmosphere, were attacked trying to liberate my person." He'd deliberately chosen the word. "They were attacked by Captain Starbuck, one of the most notorious war criminals in the Colonial Nation, responsible for countless Cylon deaths. Two Cylon ships and six Cylon citizens burned up on entering Earth's atmosphere, having lost all control of their ships after being subjected to a Colonial weapon. The third . . . the third was the one that made what Captain Starbuck has called an _unprovoked_ attack on a passenger liner. They were gunned down over the region of your world called Kazakhstan."

"I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret not being able to do something to prevent the tragedy. Alas, my own people were trying to rescue me, and they responded in kind to an act of aggression causing the deaths of their fellow crew members."

"When I did finally arrive on Earth, I was subjected to the treatment of Colonel General Surkov, Russian Air Force Commander-In-Chief. Tragically, he has chosen to align himself with Captain Starbuck. Shortly thereafter, I found myself strapped to the nose of Captain Starbuck's fighter and launched into combat. I will never forget his cruel laughter as he watched Russian soldiers carry out his orders. It was humiliating in the extreme. They used me as bait to lure more of my compatriots—still believing they were responding to a hostile situation—into a disastrous trap over Kazakhstan. Two-hundred and ten Cylons died." He paused, hanging his head dramatically for a moment. Whatever else, Lucifer had learned a lot from Baltar.

"That was an advance force sent to find me." Lucifer raised his head. "Our mothership will soon be here. My greatest fear is a full scale attack, during which your planet will be laid to waste, all because of . . . Captain Starbuck's lies."

"While tragic, the attack on your civilian airliner was not unprovoked. Do not allow the senseless loss of life to continue. Instead, arrest Captain Starbuck as the war criminal he is. He alone should pay for the lives of those poor innocents lost in the Kazakhstan sky. I recommend you designate Secretary-General Samael Asar as your liaison to the Cylon Alliance. I know I can work with this man—a man who managed to miraculously liberate me from the military so I could come here this day to speak with you, to tell you the unadulterated truth. I know that all of us, together, can find a peaceful solution. I beg of you, in the immortal words of your John Lennon, give peace a chance."

"Oh felgercarb," sighed Baltar, watching unseen from a vacant seat in the back row. "That was low, Lucifer. Even for you."

xxxxx

As planned, they had applied circuit interrupters at specific junctions in the _Endeavour_'s power grid. Dayton stepped into the Control Centre just as Apollo gave the order to initiate the shipwide powerdown. It was an eerie feeling when all but the emergency lighting blinked out. It was made all the eerier knowing that the Cylon Base Ship, _Ravager_, could very well already have scanned them.

"How long?" Dayton asked as the subtle drone and vibration of the engines was suddenly gone. He had to grab onto something as the main inertial dampers shut down and the back-up kicked in, if a bit slowly. The ship felt lifeless, as though they were sitting there impotently in a ready-made tomb.

"That depends on the _Clavis_," Dorado replied, looking over at the station where the _Clavis_ sat. He checked his instruments. Ship's systems were totally on back-up. "Engaging circuit interrupters . . ._now_!"

_Zzzzz __. . .__zzttsingg__ . . . __pop__ . . ._

As usual, the small sphere, made from an indeterminable element that had been found only at the Espridian poles, was glowing. Since it had started consuming power from the _Endeavour_, hijacking her systems one by one, the intensity of that light had only increased.

"Well?" asked Apollo.

"When Mal first showed the _Clavis_ to us, it wasn't glowing at all," Baker mentioned. The presumption was that if it shut itself down to conserve energy, they would notice a correlating effect on the sphere's surface.

"Yeah, it was a dull metal until Bob touched it that first time," Porter added, moving to stand beside it. He put a hand over it, not _quite_ touching it. "Remember, Bob, Malus said it represented the continuous flow of energy in the physical plane of the reality of matter, as well as in the abstract reality of the mind."

"Which means _what_ exactly?" Dorado asked as the orb continued to glow. He double-checked his readouts. All circuit-interrupters were in place . . .

And doing nothing.

"That we_ might_ be dealing with something more sentient than a time-space travelling machine," Porter replied, pulling back his hand, rubbing his thumb across his fingertips. "Malus also told us that the _Clavis_ has its own power source, and that it creates an unlimited amount of power."

"It would _have_ to, for it to do what it does," Dorado replied. "The energy to move _anything_ through time and space would be unfathomable."

"Well, if it has its own unlimited supply of power, why is it tapping into ours?" Porter questioned.

Dayton stared long and hard at the sphere, willing the luminescent orb to fade to a dull, lifeless, innocuous grey. It didn't. Their plan wasn't working. He turned briefly when he heard a sound. It was Ryan joining them. "Go on, Jimmy."

"Symbiosis," Porter said.

"Come again?" Apollo said.

"The living together of unlike organisms," Porter replied. "Like bacteria inside termites that digest the wood fibres. Or the fish that keep a shark's teeth clean, but don't get eaten. Each needs the other to survive."

"Organisms are biological," Ryan said, moving to join him. He too placed a hand over the spheroid, not quite touching it, a quizzical look passing over his features.

"In _our_ experience, organisms are biological," Porter replied. "It's really a kind of limited perspective when you think about it. Inside that casing . . . God knows what's really happening in there."

"You think this thing is alive?" Ryan asked, raising his eyebrows.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Porter nodded. He looked at the instruments. Still zilchville.

"You would," Ryan sighed.

"_Paddy_," Dayton said.

Porter frowned, leaning towards Ryan, taking a loud sniff. "You smell like a bloody distillery."

Ryan looked at him darkly. "Are you accusing me of _spilling_ good whiskey? Heavens to Murgatroyd! I'm mortified even!"

Dayton studied Ryan for a long moment. His friend was as close to the edge as he'd ever seen him, but seemed to be hanging in there, just like he always did. Coming home was tougher for Ryan than the others. While most of them had had personally fulfilling lives prior to 2010, over the years Paddy had seemed to compulsively dwell more on how he'd completely screwed his up, narrowly focussing on his career back then as his relationship with his wife and kids deteriorated. He'd figured himself doomed to have kids that hated him and an ex that permanently resented him. In perhaps some kind of need for atonement, he'd been obsessively and sacrificially loyal to his friends since then, seldom putting himself first. Mark took a moment to squeeze the man's shoulder, watching as Ryan's mask dropped for the fraction of a second it took for him to know it was the right thing to do. Their eyes met and Paddy nodded briefly. He'd be okay.

He'd better be.

Dayton returned his attention to the captain. "I hate to say it, Dorado, but this doesn't seem to be working. By now, the _Ravager_ will either be even closer to Earth or on her way here. I for one would like to know which. Yesterday."

"Yes, sir. You're not alone in that," the captain replied. "Prepare to reinitialise systems!"

The crew jumped into action, following routine procedures. A centon later, nothing had happened. The screens remained dark, the lighting dim, and the ship almost lifeless.

"Well?" Dayton asked. In his mind's eye, he could almost feel the _Ravager_ bearing down on them. Or maybe it was just time running out . . .

"Uh . . ." Dorado replied, "well . . . nothing's responding, Commander."

"You mean we powered down to try and disengage the _Clavis_ from our systems, but instead we've totally lost any and all control of them?" Dayton demanded.

"It, uh . . .looks that way, Commander," Apollo cringed.

"Cox?" Dayton asked.

The young man looked bewildered. "It doesn't make any sense, Commander . . ."

"Maybe we ticked it off," Porter suggested.

Baker snorted. "Or maybe someone up there doesn't like us."

As if on cue, the lights died completely, the back-up system apparently failing.

"Remind me," Dayton muttered irritably to anyone brave enough to reply, "what was Plan 'B' again?"

xxxxx

Acastus looked at his scanner with a mixture of triumph and trepidation as he checked the warbook for verification of what he suspected. It was an _Abaddon_-class Cylon Base Ship.

Smack dead in front of them and closing.

"Well?" Cadet Xenia asked nervously from beside him. She looked out the viewport, seeing Lambda and Trevanian in formation in their Hybrids, knowing they were awaiting the same news.

"It's the _Ravager_, alright," Acastus replied, sending his encoded report to the _Endeavour_ on a gamma frequency. "We've found her."

"Or maybe they've found _us.__"_

"Oh."

"Isn't she moving kind of fast?" Xenia asked.

"Uh . . ." He checked the scanner again. Sure enough, she was right. The Base Ship had been _speeding_ towards Earth, but was apparently now slowing to pick up stray Raiders along the way, or so the sudden deceleration indicated as it neared the two Cylon fighters they'd been tailing. "Oh, frack."

"What do we do? It must have scanned us by now!" Xenia pointed out.

"Well, we have two options. We either try to outrun it or we board it."

"_Board_ it? Are you _insane_?"

"Remember that briefing from Malus when we got back from Morlais?" he asked.

"Which one?" She paused as he looked at her expectantly. "Oh, _that_ one! I think I went into sleep mode when he started discussing the finer points of interrogating signals and the frequencies used to discern them."

"Malus tweaked our Cylon identity codes so the _Ravager_ will read us as belonging to _her_. We'll just be three more stray Raiders returning from Earth. They have no idea we're Colonial. Meanwhile, we activate our Colonial frequency if we go into combat so we can determine friend or foe. Remember, for security purposes, we switched to the old gamma freqs while hunting for her in this system. By the time the Cylons figure it out, if they even _detect_ it, it'll be too late. The day will be ours."

"Aside from the fact that they outnumber us," she mentioned, seriously considering what he'd said as she looked at the scanner again. "We'd never outrun a Base Ship, Acastus." Then she paled as it occurred to her . . . "Oh sufferin' Sagan! _You_ want to pull a Starbuck and Apollo. Like when they boarded the Base Star!"

"Isn't Starbuck always telling us to use some initiative?" he countered with a grin. "We'll go down in legend!"

She smiled tremulously as a Cylon voice from the _Ravager_ came over the comm giving them landing instructions. "I suppose it's better than going down in flames," she replied, reaching for the vocal modulator to respond.

"Infinitely."

xxxxx

Trying to hunch down and make himself shorter than normal, Starbuck casually walked out the door of the United Nations Headquarters behind Grae Ryan, his head bowed and eyes lowered, as he'd been instructed. Roach had said his blue eyes would be the giveaway, and to keep from making eye contact with anyone and to keep his hands tucked into the folds of his billowy getup at all costs. Studiously, he tried to keep his gaze on the swirl of the robes in front of him, shaking his head slightly in silent amusement, following Ryan down the stairs and towards the waiting transport, as people brushed against him, some more aggressively than others who merely moved out of his way. Media types swarmed the area like locusts, awaiting news from the Security Council. The area was artificially lit to such an extent that it was hard to believe it was almost 0100 centars, the middle of the night here in New York. With everything going on, he supposed it was only natural that his gaze would eventually swing upwards, noticing that his Wraith was being dissected by men in suits, crawling over her, under her, inside her. His step faltered and he gritted his teeth, fighting the irrational urge to do something about it while he reminded himself it was just a ship . . . not his wife.

"Eyes down," Ryan grunted, turning briefly to address him, adopting an accent Starbuck was unfamiliar with. Like himself, Ryan was attired in flowing robes, though of a different cut, and his face was exposed. His skin had been darkened, he sported a heavy black beard, and he wore a short, bladed weapon at his belt. "Do as you're told, woman!"

In contrast, Starbuck's eyes were the only things someone could make out in the all-encompassing dark cloak that he wore. According to Ryan and Roach, it was a garment worn by a religious minority of Earth women, to hide their faces and bodies when they were out in public. Ironically, it wasn't vastly different from traditional costume worn in most of the Colonies, save the veil and the fact that the robes were loose flowing, rather than cinched in with a belt. By comparison, most of the Earth clothes that he'd seen so far on women like Jess or Katko had _accented_ their femininity, instead of hiding it. However, in this instance, the cloak granted him an apparently untouchable anonymity that he could only be thankful for as he followed Ryan towards the yellow transport that suddenly pulled up directly onto the curb, the rear door swinging open.

"New York Mosque!" a voice called out from within. "As close to Mecca as you can get without crossing the ocean!"

Ryan held the door as Starbuck piled in, noting Dickins in the front seat with the driver, an unusual hat with a bill pulled down low over his face. A moment later the Colonial Warrior was fighting with his plentiful robes on the backseat, ensnarled in their folds. A low voice was coming over a media player in the front, reporting news events much like he'd been accustomed to on the _IFB_.

"Frack," he muttered, adjusting his robes. "If Boomer _ever_ gets word of this . . ."

"Don't you look enchanting in your drapery," Dickins replied in a tone reminiscent of Boomer, as Ryan pulled the door shut behind him. "Go, Mitch."

The yellow transport sped off, its engine strangely silent. It looked kind of like a hovermobile without the repulsor units, and smelled like a typical Caprica City hoverhack. He opened the window a bit to get some fresh air. With an exaggerated wrinkle of his nose, so did Ryan.

"Starbuck, this is my grandson, Mitch. Mitch, Captain Starbuck from the Colonial Nation and Major Graeme Ryan from WASA," Dickins introduced them. "Mitch has already taken the family somewhere safe."

"Welcome to New York," the young man said, screaming around a corner and dodging an amazing amount of traffic in the busy centre for the late centar. His dark brown hair was military short, except for a braided tail that stemmed from the crown of his head and trailed down to his neck. "The city that never sleeps."

"Then I know how it feels, Mitch. Thanks for the ride," Starbuck replied, pulling the veil from his head and rubbing his eyes. His vision blurred, while the kaleidoscopic view rushed by. He'd been rushed out of the room where they'd tried to set him up for termination so fast that there was no time for questions or answers. Before he knew it he was disguised as a "Muslim woman"—whatever that was exactly—following Ryan back to what they were calling "American soil". They'd split up with the others in order to attract less attention. "Where are Hummer and Roach?"

"They're going to meet us in Jersey, kid. McGuire Air Force Base. Roach wants us to keep a low profile while he tries to sort out who is with us and who is against us. That's why we're in this taxi; it's one of about fifteen thousand in the Big Apple," Dickins replied, a faint smirk on his face as he tossed some civilian clothes into Starbuck's lap. "Blue jeans, t-shirt and running shoes. Put them on. We don't want you sticking out like a sore thumb. Might even stop for a coffee to fit in with the rest."

"_Starbucks_?" grinned the younger Dickins, hitting the brakes hard as they stopped at a light.

"Huh?" Starbuck said, sticking out a hand to steady himself, while struggling out of the robes.

"Where else?" returned his grandfather with a wide grin. "In our boy's honour, of course. Too bad Dayton couldn't be here for this."

"Come again?" Starbuck said as they chuckled around him, clearly at his expense.

"_Starbucks_. It's a coffee shop," Mitch filled him in with a snort.

"I'm a _java shop_?" Starbuck asked as Ryan's arm shot in front of his face, pointing out one window, then the next, and then another. He leaned across the man getting a better look. Sure enough, on _all_ four corners of the street were busy java shops, the name "STARBUCKS"—which was probably the only thing he could consistently read in Earthspeak—prominently displayed over a logo of a woman, with the word COFFEE beneath her. It explained all the smirks and probably most of the nicknames, unfortunately, most of them were inconsequential babble to him. For the middle of the night, all four java stops were incredibly busy, people sitting at tables, only two of them that he could see engaged in conversation, all the rest plugged into something that they were apparently watching or listening to. "What are they doing?"

"Those are media players," Ryan said, shrugging. "They let people stay in touch, watch the news as it happens, chat with someone on the other side of the world." He grunted. "All the time ignoring the people and the real world all around them."

Starbuck frowned. If he was over there, he'd be doing his level best to chat up the attractive blonde sitting _by herself_ at a table, holding a small device that she was intently concentrating on as she thumbed it. He was betting he could be much more charming and engaging than that little box. _You're sealed, Bucko. You should be worrying about your wife, not thinking about lonely mysterious blondes with shapely legs and incredibly short skirts._ "All those people are communicating with someone else that isn't there?"

"Or listening to podcasts, or watching the news, or playing a game," replied Ryan. "Hell, I get more texts and emails these days than actual phone calls."

"But don't your people have something like this, Starbuck?" asked Mitch, barely missing a large truck emblazoned with _The 7 Santini Brothers,_ while looking back at his passengers. "Gramps says your technology is way, way ahead of what we have. Surely you have cellular and digital communications."

"Yeah, but it was also susceptible . . . hey! Watch out!"

Mitch swerved, missing a large transport by centimetrons. "_Watch where you're going, idiot_!" he hollered out the window, before returning his attention to Starbuck. "Susceptible?"

"Holy . . ." Suddenly, Starbuck wished he was driving, even though he didn't know _how_. He leaned forward over Mitch's shoulder, watching. It didn't look difficult. "Yeah. Susceptible to Cylon tapping and jamming. We utilized buried optical fibre nets more than satellite links for basic civilian traffic. High security and encrypted systems were reserved for military or government use from early on in the war. As a result, we never lost the art of direct communications, interacting with other people on a personal level. The war drove people together, not apart."

"I see. Heck, we hardly ever write letters, anymore."

"No fracking wonder this planet is in trouble."

"It was going this way when we left," Dickins said. "We called it the Worldwide Web back then. Hell, the younger generation. They didn't understand the art of socializing. They spent more time on Facebook or playing with their multimedia players or gaming systems than actually interacting with real people. Jojo's break-up with her boyfriend in Austria was more tragic than the little old lady down the street whose husband just had a heart attack. I heard about a guy who hosted an Olympic hockey game party and spent his whole time on his iPod belittling some guy in Medicine Hat. They were more in tune to their internet friends than their neighbours." He glanced at his grandson, who was again accelerating and ripping up the pavement.

"Easy, Gramps. Not _everyone_ is like that. Most of us grow out of it."

"How long since you've updated your Facebook account, Mitch? Or whatever social networking website is popular these days."

"Facebook is ancient history. I use Pal. And I checked in just before I left for the UN. I'm having a torrid affair with Semillon in France."

"My point, exactly. You're courting a bottle of wine, son. Not a real person."

"Hey, most of my generation think _your_ age group are what Gran calls 'Nosey Parkers'," Mitch defended himself.

"Great, now I'm an 'age group'! We're not nosey, son, we're _interested_," Dickins replied. "Rest easy, Granddad's home, I'll straighten you out." His smile could have powered a small country.

"Oh, I feel much better now." Mitch grinned crookedly. "Whew!"

"Alright." Starbuck smiled. It was good to see Dickins this animated. He pulled off his combat boots, now noticing there seemed to be a _Starbucks_ almost every block or two. "So how did I go from United Nations guest of honour to a mark in the space of thirty centons? Tell me what happened back there. That woman was violated and then murdered, and those goons were cold-blooded killers."

"Samael Asar happened," Ryan replied, starting to strip out of his costume. He peeled off his fake beard and pushed back his odd headgear. "He's the current Secretary-General of the United Nations as well as the Minister of Foreign Affairs for Egypt," he explained, wiping the dark makeup off his face. "He had to be the one giving the orders back there. Whatever he says goes inside the UN."

"Egypt?" Starbuck echoed, remembering a bizarre coincidence that Dayton had told him about. Or maybe it _wasn't_ a coincidence, after all. He leaned against Ryan as Mitch took a hard right. "Isn't that where the Kobollian pyramids are?"

"Kobollian?" Ryan asked, hesitating as he peered through the window at a woman who had jumped back from the curb as they suddenly rounded the corner. "That looked like LM . . . nah, couldn't have been. Sorry, Starbuck, what were you saying?"

"Never mind," Starbuck said, shedding his familiar uniform. "Long story, no time."

Ryan let out a low whistle as light from the city fleetingly illuminated the back of the transport. "Jaysus, you're black and blue, Starbuck."

"And red all over," Dickins added, seeing the streak of blood down the warrior's arm from his most recent flesh wound.

"It's nothing," Starbuck assured them.

Dickins tossed back a small first aid kit to Ryan. Within centons, the arm was cleaned and field dressed. "Nice job. Your Dad would be proud, Grae."

"Oh?"

"He became our unofficial medic."

"My Dad? Why?" Grae sniffed in apparent amusement. "Because he has a doctorate?"

"No, because he was the only one who could stand the sight of blood," Dickins replied with a grunt.

"Thanks, Ryan," Starbuck said, beginning to pull on the unfamiliar clothing. Someone had sized him up pretty well. They were a comfortable fit. "So what's this Samael Asar guy got against me?"

"Hard to say, exactly. But I get the idea that Lucifer showing up at the Security Council meeting right after your speech translates to Asar's involvement with securing the Cylon. I don't quite understand where they come off thinking that the Cylons could possibly be our allies."

"So he has people on the inside in the American military," Starbuck said. "Just like with the Russians."

"He has people everywhere. This is his second term as Secretary-General. I expect he'll go for a third. Some say he's the most powerful man in the world," Ryan replied. "Frankly, after what just happened, I'm beginning to believe it." He nodded up front. "Asar introduced what the media calls Universal Law. It currently dictates that whatever happens on UN soil is no longer subject to the laws of the United States. He's pressing for it to go global. That Universal Law would replace all individual national law, along with a global currency, economy, and security. Eventually, we'll see a global totalitarian and authoritarian government too. Some countries are buying it. You would have never seen _that_ fifty years ago"

"Asar is more powerful than our president?" Dickins asked in disbelief.

Mitch snorted, cranking the wheel over hard.

"Rumour has it that Gibson is only in office because Asar condoned it," Ryan replied. "He figured he could control him. After all, the way L.M. tells it, most of those supposedly working directly for President Gibson, actually answer to Asar first. Their allegiance lies elsewhere."

"Frack, these guys make the Quorum of the Twelve look good," Starbuck ventured. "Sire Uri would fit right in."

"How the hell do we beat them?" Dickins asked. "We can't keep getting lucky forever."

"People have been trying to expose them for more than sixty years for what they really are," Ryan said. "Only now . . . I'm thinking we never realized how far back this conspiracy truly went."

"To Egypt?" Dickins figured. "More than five thousand years ago?"

"And Iblis," Starbuck added. "Maybe even Kobol."

"Yup. I'd say that something's definitely rotten in the state of Denmark," Ryan added.

"Yeah? Well, it doesn't exactly smell like rosas back here, either," Starbuck returned with a sniff, slumping his head back against the seat and settling in for the ride. Fatigue was quickly becoming his worst enemy. On the upside, at least he'd shaken Baltar for the time being. Maybe, if there was time, he could actually get a little shut-eye. "How long will it take to get to the airbase?"

"Roach directed us to swap cars outside the city. The yellow cab blends in here, but not so much in Burlington County, New Jersey," Dickins replied. "How long will it take, Mitch?"

"About eighty minutes, Grandpa."

"Right. So don't get too comfortable," Dickins told Starbuck. "You're still the poster boy for our side for a good reason, Starbuck . Roach wants you to have a pilots' briefing all ready for him to forward to our allies, similar to what you did in Kazakhstan." He handed Starbuck a thin black box. "Ryan can help you with the finer points of that. Meanwhile, Granddad here is going to catch forty winks while you young 'uns get to work."

Starbuck nodded wearily.


	46. Chapter Fifteen: Part Two

"Is this line secure?" the British Chief of Air Staff and Marshal of the Royal Air Force finally asked, after listening in absolute silence to Roach's monologue.

"_Is_ there such a thing, Leach?" Roach asked over the sat-phone, sighing. He looked over at Hummer, sitting across from him in the back seat of the unmarked military vehicle that General McDermott of the US Army had sent, as they raced towards their rendezvous to pick up Starbuck and the others. Director Mason, Chairman Edwards and Secretary of Defence Wright had gone to ground since President Gibson had issued orders to have them detained for questioning. As soon as Gibson had made it out of the UN Headquarters, the USA had declared DEFCON 1. Now suddenly the other American Chiefs of Staff were with him, thank God. "It's a dedicated WASA communication satellite that Dayton set me up with. It's the closest thing to secure that we're going to get, Arch." He paused, letting his words to Leach sink in a little further. "Don't tell me that all of this is a _complete_ surprise. I heard you and Metencourt were standing by to attack French Guiana. That must have come from your Chairman Whatley or Prime Minister Webster. Doesn't sound like your style."

"Well, after Director Dayton dropped one of our birds into the drink, I was feeling a tad irritable, Will."

"I yell at a subordinate when I'm irritable, I don't attack a civilian space centre."

"Yes, the epitome of restraint, you are," the other chuckled mirthlessly. "Berate me for almost securing the Guiana Space Centre on one hand, while on the other you suggest a military coupe."

"It's not a suggestion, it's a necessity. According to President Gibson, it was Sir Robert Gimbel at the UN Security Council who vetoed preparing a worldwide offensive in favour of further deliberations after listening to Captain Starbuck and then the Cylon."

"I'd have loved to be a fly on the wall there," Leach said.

"You're not alone."

Gimbel, the UK representative in the United Nations, held the Most Distinguished Order of St. Michael and St. George and was also the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, which meant he was subject to Chairman Whatley of the Joint Intelligence Committee in the official British pecking order. "I tell you, Arch, Secretary-General Samael Asar is paralysing our only chance of surviving a Cylon attack through bureaucracy. Everything, including the toilet paper, must be in triplicate and vetted by committee, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. And your prime minister and Joint Intelligence Committee are supporting that."

"You really think Prime Minister Webster . . ." Leach's voice trailed off as he thought about it. Even as he instinctively defended his prime minister to the American, he reminded himself how many times he'd thought Webster and his high muckety-mucks were operating under some hidden agenda. He'd refused to let himself explore that avenue in the past, but now, after everything that had happened, it was kicking him in the gut. "_Blast_! What about Surkov?"

"He's ready. Like President Gibson, the Russian President, Kuzmin, was also targeted for assassination. His people caught the assassin literally in his bedroom, Arch, two feet from him. It's getting so the only world leaders I'm prepared to trust are the ones that someone has tried to knock off. Japan is with us, not surprisingly. China too, thankfully. Seems that there was some world-renowned Chinese academic on that plane the Cylons buttoned over Russia, so they're pissed. I know we can count on the Canadian military, too, although Prime Minister Dosanjh will be surprised by that, if you get my drift."

"This is insane, Will," Leach said. "Worldwide defiance of the UN."

"A little insanity is good for the soul, Arch," Roach replied. "Can you do it? Do you have the support?"

"There is the trifling matter of the European Union's Common Security and Defence Policies."

"I thought the European Union Military Command was your private old boy's club, Arch?"

"Maybe over the billiards table with a fine single malt scotch, but this _is_ a little more serious."

"I hope that's your annoying classic British understatement, Leach. You realize what's at stake here? Don't you?"

"I do," he replied. "Keep your pecker up, Will. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'll be in touch."

"Good man."

_Beep._

_xxxxx_

"Wraith One to _Endeavour_, come in." _Hiss . . . crackle . . . hiss . . . __"__Endeavour, _respond please!"

The ship's rotation was slowly decreasing in rate, only inertia maintaining the motion, as the Covert Operations Ship failed to power its systems back up after the emergency shut down. Luana hadn't been able to communicate with the Control Centre for over a centar. Meanwhile, the Cylon Base Ship, _Ravager__,_was maintaining its course towards Earth. Either it hadn't detected them or it couldn't be bothered to investigate the apparent derelict with a nice juicy planet of humanoids ahead to exterminate.

"Wraith One to _Endeavour_. _Hel_-lo _Endeavour_! Pierus! Wake up! C'mon, you guys! I'm getting lonely out here!"

She didn't want to admit it, even to herself, but she was scared to death. Her fuel was low. So low, in fact, that if she didn't get through some landing bay doors in the next twenty centons, she'd be adrift. If she'd been in a Viper, she could have put herself into sleep mode, decreasing the demands on her life support systems. No such luck with the Espridian Wraith. She throttled down her systems another couple of percent, anyway. However, realistically, there was one Hades of a lot more at stake here than just herself. The only chance that Earth had was sitting lifelessly in front of her, and she didn't even know what was going on inside that hulking piece of metal that was looking more and more like a death box.

"Lords, Starbuck, what do I do now?" she murmured, wishing he was on the other end of a comm line reassuring her that everything would be alright. What she wouldn't give to hear his confident voice telling her what they would do next, no matter how crazy it was. Somehow _he_ would make it work.  
She shook her head slightly, realizing he'd be waiting impatiently for them on Earth right now. There was no way he could know what had befallen the Covert Operations Ship that he was counting on to engage the _Ravager_. The gorge rose in her throat when she imagined the devastation the Base Ship would cause once it unleashed its mega- pulsar on the home of the Thirteenth Tribe. Here in space, she would eventually lose consciousness, succumbing to a lack of vital oxygen. It would be comparatively pleasant compared to the holocaust that would befall Earth.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, wondering if Starbuck would survive . . . if _any_ of them would survive. It all seemed so hopeless. There had to be something she could do. _Anything_ . . . She took a deep breath, trying to find some of her old resolve . . . Now that she thought about it, it seemed to Lu she'd been wallowing in self pity and helplessness ever since finding out she was infertile. That was no way to return to the Empyrean . . .

"Listen, you old crone," she growled at the stars around her, "if you're out there and there's anything you can do . . . well, frackin' well_ do _it!"

xxxxx

Wearing his ankle length, flowing and loose white garment, Eckandar Shahhosseini looked more like a dramatic caricature than an actual man. Older than Methuselah, he had a lined and craggy bearded face, a baldpate, and a back that was bent and twisted. Yet, the frail man moved with a natural grace as he leaned on his cane, entering the stately sitting room where he received rare visitors. It was a showcase of Middle Eastern antiquity, and Lauren had found it impossible to sit still on the ornately carved wood furniture. Instead, she had wandered slowly through the room drinking in the eclectic display of vibrant and colourful tapestries, softly glowing copper lanterns, intricate ceramic vases, beautiful alabaster figurines, mosaic tabletops, antiquities ranging from ancient Sumer to the Umayyad Period, all adorning a hand-knotted wool carpet. Scented oils and the lingering smell of incense and exotic foods sweetened the air. The spectrum of colours blended harmoniously, adding to richness of the room, instead of making it a garish spectacle. She was by no means an expert, but she knew that the pieces around her were old and valuable. The "dead" man before her was, after all, a collector. Living out his remaining years in seclusion—or "hiding" as she more accurately referred to it—he had mentioned once before that antiques were his only pleasure left in life.

Silently, he waved her to a seat, taking his customary place. As she sat down, a young man appeared quietly from the adjoining room, carefully laying a beautiful brass engraved tray and tea set on the table between the only two chairs. She had always found it curious that the warm liquid was customarily served in small delicate and decorative glasses, a direct contrast to the western tradition of heavy ceramic mugs. Customarily, she waited, well aware by now that the drinking of the strong black tea was a tradition of cordiality. She had observed all necessary traditions—including covering her head and wearing modest clothing—to gain the audience and sceptical trust of this man over the years.

"Is it possible, Ms. Dayton, that more people now want to kill _you_ than _me_?" His voice was hoarse, but his accent was distinguished, an interesting mixture of Saudi Arabian and Oxford English, denoting both where he was born and where he was educated. His teeth were startling white against his weathered skin.

"Do you have a spare room?" she replied, sipping daintily on her tea for his benefit. It was spiced with something she didn't recognize, but was delicious. "Truth be told, I could happily live in your hand carved buffet, Shaikh Eckandar."

He nodded, looking lovingly at the piece. "Eighteenth century Egypt, Mamluk revival. It is exquisite, isn't it, Ms. Dayton?"

It was bizarre to her that she could be sitting here chatting politely with a man who had been responsible for countless deaths over the decades, including—or so she had thought—that of her infamous father. It was a warped and indefinable relationship they'd formed when the daughter of Mark Dayton had first approached the 'retired' terrorist to pen his biography, meant to be published posthumously. "Mamluk?" She frowned, trying to date the dynasty. It seemed to her that there was more than one dynasty by that name, but that was the extent of detail that her memory could dredge up. "The ancient soldiers of slave origin that converted to Islam?"

"Yes." Shahhosseini nodded briefly, taking a sip of his tea. "'There are none more hopelessly enslaved, than those who falsely believe they are free.'"

"Goethe."

"Yes. I find it useful at times to be well versed in the classics, both Eastern and Western. And time is plentiful in my retirement."

"A fellow lover of books," she smiled, nodding towards a shelf lined with books in a far corner.

"Of course. After all, _A cella vacuus libri_ _est ut a somes vacuus a animus.__"_

"Yes. A room without books is as a body without a soul. Cicero is always good for a drop of wisdom. My compliments."

"I am honoured," he replied, with a slight bow of the head.

The Goethe quote opened the door to what she wanted to talk about, but it seemed to her that he usually knew what train of thought she was pursuing. She'd been interviewing him for years for a biographical novel, not publishable until his death due to the nature of the many and varied criminal allegations and associations. Most of the world already believed that the one-time leader of the Islamic World Front—one of the world's most wanted men—had died over a decade ago in Pakistan, executed after being brought to justice. Instead, he was living as a recluse in an undisclosed location in New York City, she suspected, under the "protection" of the United States government. Every time she visited, she arrived in Shahhosseini's car, blindfolded for the duration of the trip. Making this trip at this time was either gutsy or foolhardy, but she needed answers. "Tell me about Samael Asar's family, Shaikh Eckandar."

Her host was quiet for some moments, looking off into space. When he spoke, his voice seemed equally far away. "It is very old."

"I've heard his bloodline can be traced back to ancient Egypt. Even to the earliest dynasties."

"I've heard that too, but then I've heard the same about the King of England." He smiled mysteriously and she wasn't sure if he was ridiculing her or suggesting just that. "Asar is a firm believer in what was once known as the divine right, Ms. Dayton. That he has a mandate from God to rule. And he very much sees himself in the role of world monarch."

"Divine right was a doctrine of _royal _absolutism. A European one at that."

"Yes, but do not forget Imperial China. _The Mandate of Heaven_. Or the ancient Sumerian King List 'The Kingship once more descended from heaven.'"

"My error," she took another sip. "But Egypt hasn't had a king since the 1950's when the monarchy was overthrown during Nassar's revolution, King Farouk and his family exiled, and the country became a republic."

"All true. But Asar has no interest in claiming a throne that no longer exists, save in a museum. He wants to rule the world."

"That's crazy!"

"Is it?" Shahhosseini paused. "Asar has been . . . strongly influenced, shall we say."

"By whom?"

He paused just a moment too long, studying her. "Difficult to say, really."

So, taking a chance, she said it for him: "Iblis."

Shahhosseini's eyes narrowed slightly and his breath hitched. "_You_ know of Iblis," he finally said softly. "By that name?"

"I do."

"A legend. A myth." He seemed to be feeling her out, not disputing it.

"An immortal being, not of this world," she replied. "As real as you or I."

He sniffed in derision. "Billions would mock you."

"Then he has fooled them all."

After a long moment, he said, "I did not give you enough credit, Ms. Dayton. My apologies."

"Accepted."

He smiled faintly. It was rare.

"Let's back up a bit. Asar has been prominent in Egyptian politics for twenty years, his father before that. Did he ever employ the _Islamic World Front_?" she asked.

Shahhosseini was quiet an even longer moment.

"Information like that can get you killed, Ms. Dayton."

"I've stopped worrying about that."

He raised his eyebrows, and then nodded. "Money _was_ exchanged in payment for . . . services rendered, yes."

"Asar paid a known terrorist organization to do his dirty work."

"Not directly, of course. Often when a necessary job is . . . _distasteful_, politicians or others who wish to remain unconnected with the deed, find it effective to manipulate the situation to their advantage. This has been illustrated time and time again as significant historical documents are declassified. Take the sinking of the _Lusitania_, for example. A prime example of pushing a recalcitrant public into war. Winston Churchill once wrote, 'The manoeuvre which brings an ally into the field is as serviceable as that which wins a war'." He paused. "The ship's construction and operating expenses were subsidised by the British government with the proviso that she be converted to an Armed Merchant Cruiser if need be. Contrary to United States President Wilson's claims of neutrality, Ms. Dayton, the _Lusitania_ carried six hundred tons of gun cotton explosive, six million rounds of ammunition, over a thousand cases of shrapnel shells, plus other war materials when she left New York. She was a floating ammunition dump. Meanwhile, Winston Churchill also ordered British ships to remove their hull names and to fly the flags of neutral nations when in port to maximize German confusion when they targeted the enemy. Later, he freely admitted his orders were a ploy to involve other nations in the war. On the seventh of May, 1915, a German U-boat mistakenly sunk the _Lusitania_. Churchill's plan worked."

"But then you are not naïve, Ms. Dayton. You already know that politicians search for provocations to gain the support of the public with no regard to the ultimate cost. Examine more closely the controversies of Pearl Harbour, the Gulf of Tonkin, the World Trade Centre, and the Korea Life Insurance Building. It is expedient. So it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that, yes, the Egyptian administration secretly funded radical Islamic groups with ties to the _IWF_. The same could be said of many national administrations."

This time she raised her eyebrows. "What are you getting at?"

"You asked me once before if there was any hint of American political involvement when the _Islamic World Front_ claimed responsibility for destroying the _International Space Station,_and with it your father's ship."

"That was ten years ago. You said 'no'." Her heart pounded in her chest.

"I am older and much closer to Allah now than I was then. Ask me again, Ms. Dayton. This time I will answer truthfully."

"Why would the American government sanction the destruction of the _ISS_?" She needed to hear it, despite figuring it out for herself long ago.

"It was relatively early days in President Obama's administration and he was rapidly losing popularity, as he worked to introduce universal medicare while trying to assert a leadership role in overseeing one of the worst publicized oil spills in history," Shahhosseini told her. "Initially, he'd announced a proposal to cancel the _Constellation_program—a leftover of the Bush administration which some described as 'Apollo on steroids'. At that time the _International Space Station_ was scheduled to be deorbited five years later. Two months later he amended his decision, committing to increasing NASA's funding by six billion dollars and predicting a crewed orbital Mars mission by the 2030's, at the expense of other programs. Obama's decision wasn't popular. In fact, some declared that NASA would spend a hundred billion on manned spaceflight development over the next ten years, in order to accomplish nothing. They claimed that the President, while apparently calling for an historic flight to Mars, was actually terminating the programs that would make it possible."

"At face value, they were right," Lauren replied. Obama _had_ to have known about the technology at Roswell.

"I will cede to your greater knowledge in that regard." He inclined his head. "President Obama was also trying to reach out to the Muslim world, and had in fact directed a NASA administrator to engage much more with Muslim nations to help them feel good about their historic contribution to science, etcetera. So it was . . . _intriguing_, shall we say, when I was contacted with instructions to destroy the space station. I knew it would again ignite the Western world's age-old passionate hatred of the East. Then again, passion has been known to cloud judgment, which was their intent all along."

"Instructions? You mean they _told_ you how to do it?"

"The people were already in place. We only had to complete the cycle and then claim responsibility."

"An inside job."

"Yes." He raised a hand and shook his head. "But having nothing to do with your father or his crew, as the media later claimed. They were entirely innocent. Sacrificial lambs, as it were. The agent—a Russian of Arab decent, coincidentally—was already in place on the space station. The explosives were in the payload from the previous resupply mission."

"But NASA was still implicated and the space program with its multibillion dollar budget was scrapped. Obama's attempt at ameliorating relations with the Muslim world was kyboshed."

"Yes."

She placed her delicate glass back on the tray, leaning forward. "By whom, Shaikh Eckandar? Who was really behind the Islamic World Front destroying the ISS? Tell me."

"You already know, Ms. Dayton. While you and I could sit here cordially ascribing blame to numerous men, myself included, they were merely puppets, their strings pulled by the ultimate puppet master."

"_Iblis_."

xxxxx

They were dead in space. Life support and gravity were the only functional systems on the _Endeavour_, and only because they were backed up by reserve power cells. The crew had tried everything humanly possible to disengage the _Clavis_ from their systems, all to no avail. Even communications were down, so they couldn't even warn Phoenix Squadron that the Cylon Base Ship was on its way. Dayton glared at the mysterious orb that glowed cockily from where it rested in the Control Centre, delaying their mission, and possibly jeopardizing the survival, if not the very _existence_ of Earth, not to mention his sanity.

"Does _anybody_ have any other ideas?" Dayton asked, doing a three-sixty of the Control Centre. "Anything at all?"

"Human sacrifice?" Ryan piped up.

"Step right up, Paddy," Dayton volunteered him, letting out a sigh, and turning back to face Apollo. The young colonel shook his head dispiritedly, and then looked beyond his commander, his mouth opening in surprise as his eyes grew wide.

"Ryan! NO!" Apollo shouted instinctively, left hand raised, moving towards the other.

Dayton pivoted around to see Paddy standing in front of the Clavis, hands resting on it, his eyes closed and his face drawn. The same soft glow that normally suffused the orb now seemed to be emitting from his friend, the light more intense at the point of contact. Any number of the men had touched the thing before now, but _this_ had never happened before. A few moments later, as a luminescence completely engulfed him, Ryan looked eerily resplendent, except for his unnatural pallor.

"Paddy?" Dayton murmured uneasily, feeling a strange energy in the air as he approached the other. He waved a hand in front of Paddy's face, but there was no response. He seemed like a statue, eternally frozen. Dayton's hair prickled at the back of his neck, and he hesitated to touch the delinquent astronaut as his fingertips tingled almost painfully at their sudden proximity.

"Mark," Porter said. "Don't touch him."

"But Jimmy . . ."

"_Don't_!" Porter repeated sharply, moving to pull his friend back.

"You crazy Canuck," Dayton murmured. "Let go, Paddy. Just let go."

"I don't think he can hear us," Porter said.

"I don't think he could let go if he wanted to," Baker added.

"Go get Cassiopeia, Sagaris," Apollo ordered. "Tell her to bring her med kit and scanner."

"Yes, sir."

Centons later, Cassiopeia arrived, biomonitor in hand. By now Ryan was glowing like a lighthouse. Dayton didn't know whether to be alarmed or not when an ambient glow began to crawl over the deck around Ryan, apparently now infecting the ship. It was as though a shimmering coat of dust was resting on the deck. The more Ryan glowed, the quicker the evanescent blanket infiltrated the _Endeavour_.

"He's alive," Cassie concluded after running her biomonitor over Ryan. "But I'm getting some strange readings that . . . that I can't make any sense of."

"What _kind_ of readings?" Dayton asked.

"I can't pick up his bio-rhythm. Normally, electrical impulses from the sinoatrial node travel to the atrioventricular node with successful contraction of the two atria, which contract the ventricles of the heart. I'm reading electrical impulses so accelerated that the biomonitor can't even track them accurately." Cassie shook her head in consternation.

"What did she say, Sir?" Sagaris asked.

"No idea," Dayton replied. "In plain language, Cassiopeia? For me."

"I can only theorize that somehow the energy from the Clavis has affected the physiology of Ryan's cardiovasculature. His heart and circulatory system. They're . . ." she shrugged, "joined together."

Everyone took a step back from the glowing man, looking in increasing alarm at the shimmering nature of the deck. It was now creeping up the walls.

"So, first it took over the _Endeavour_ and now it's going to take over all of _us_?" Baker asked.

"Unless the alcohol content of Ryan's blood lulls it into a sense of complacency," Porter returned dryly.

"Suddenly, those abandoned ships on Phobos are looking good," Dayton said. "How many crew can we evacuate if it comes to that?"

"Let's just say that they had more lifeboats on the _Titanic_," Baker replied.

"From the pictures, I'd say they were in about as good a shape as the _Titanic_," said Porter.

"We have one Cylon shuttle and another squadron of Hybrids," Apollo told him. "Stretching the capacity of all available ships, I'd estimate we could evacuate about one hundred and sixty people."

"But including the Barstow Station crewmen, we have over eight hundred people aboard!" Cassie protested.

"We're closer to Phobos than Earth," Dorado pointed out. "Apollo, how functional did those ships in that spacedock look?"

"One looked almost completed, but that doesn't factor in thousands of yahrens of neglect, Dorado," the colonel replied. "And I have no way of knowing her structural integrity, or if she's even air-tight."

"We don't need a Battlecruiser, Apollo, just something that will carry more of our people to safety," Dorado replied. "I'm sure I saw some transport vessels on your vid-feed."

"Apollo's point is that we could send a crew to Phobos only to find out that those ships need total overhauls." Dayton agreed with his executive officer.

"What other choice do we have?" Dorado replied.

A flash of light from behind them nearly knocked the eyeballs out of Dayton's head. When the spots cleared from his vision, Ama was standing there, shimmering like a vision, holding the Oculus in her hands, her Empyrean talisman glowing on her chest just as vibrantly as the _Clavis_ and Ryan.

"Well," she said, "there's always me."

xxxxx

Falling into position with the other Raiders being picked up by the _Ravager_ on the way to Earth, they had made it into the landing bay of the _Abaddon_-class Base Ship without a hitch. One thing that could be said for the average Cylon centurion, it didn't ask a lot of questions. Acastus decided that the centurion "mindset" was such that humans were meant to either engage Cylons or run away from them. This brash new approach to dealing with the enemy through surreptitiously boarding their vessel was evidently something they hadn't given much consideration to in the last thousand yahrens. It made him feel bold, courageous, adventurous, heroic . . .

"This is astrum-kicking, get-me-killed-before-my-time _crazy_," Xenia muttered tensely, crouched down beside him.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" he countered, keeping out of "sight" as the centurions ritualistically filed out of the landing bay. Trevanian and Lambda's ships had also landed without incident, those cadets laying low as well.

"Buried somewhere beneath my terror," she replied, biting her lip. "I think I should have listened to my mother and kept that archivist's job on the _Bodleian_."

"Wouldn't you rather _make_ history, rather than archive it?"

"Let me think about that," she replied, scrunching down even further out of view. "On further introspection, no, I wouldn't."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You're taking this reluctant hero role to a whole new sub-level, Xenia."

"Mother always told me to aim for perfection," she replied shakily. "Besides, just what are we going to blow the mega-pulsar with? Your dynamic personality and mega-volton smile? We didn't exactly leave the _Endeavour _prepared for this mission."

He turned to look at her. _Really_ look at her.

She was several shades of pale and trembling, one hand to her mouth, the other clenching her laser, white-knuckled. A good deca-yahren older than most of her squadron mates, she was stocky and plain, with limp light brown hair that was tied back from her face. As he had first assumed, it wasn't comedic reluctance at all on her part, but actual fear. She _was_ a cadet after all, not a seasoned veteran like their strike captain who had, in a round about way, inspired this impromptu mission. And while Acastus and most of his relatively young squadron mates aspired to match the heroics of legends like Starbuck and Apollo, Xenia clearly wasn't under the same spell that suspended terror in favour of striving for glory.

"Hey, you're going to be fine," he reassured her in a soothing voice. "We'll get out of this. I promise."

Her gaze shifted to him and she smiled tremulously. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Damned right, I do," he replied with a grin. "And we'll pick up a Gold Cluster for our trouble."

She looked at him incredulously for a long moment. "Sagan," she sighed, "you've got it bad." She shook her head, drawing a deep breath, shifting her position. "I'd better come along, if just to keep your head out of the clouds."

He shook his head slightly, unable to figure her out. He sneaked a peek out of the port. It was just like Starbuck had recited it; there wasn't a centurion in sight. "Okay, let's go. You watch my back, I'll watch yours. Okay?"

"Not quite sure how that's physically possible . . ." she murmured..

"_Xenia_ . . ."

"Yeah, yeah."

xxxxx

"Yeah, we should be getting our orders any time now," Lieutenant Rooke said, glancing at his co-pilot as they both watched the blip on their scanners gradually become a visual on an _Abaddon_-class Base Ship. There had been no word from the _Endeavour_ or Luana. He had, however, received an encoded message from Acastus' patrol, informing him _after_ the fact that they intended to board the _Ravager_ and try to wipe out the mega-pulsars. The kid gave new meaning to the word "ambitious". He may have refined "wild-astrumed-crazy", as well. Meanwhile, on the far side of the Earth's moon, Phoenix Squadron was standing by, as instructed.

Still.

"_Await my orders_, I believe Commander Dayton said," Alecto reminisced. "Awaiting, yes, awaiting."

"Still a-waiting," Rooke replied, with a snort. "Don't much like it, either."

"Yup." Alecto looked over at the acting squadron leader. "Do you have a plan?"

"Besides a-waiting? Several. All of them are reactionary."

"Come again?"

"If Acastus manages to destroy the mega-pulsars, it will change the battle dramatically. It will go from us worrying about Earth being annihilated in a day, to the Cylons performing strafing runs on Earth while trying to repair their primary weapons."

"Two ensigns and a bunch of cadets boarding the _Ravager_ and destroying her primary weapons? That's a mighty big 'if'."

"I know it."

"You know, the Cylons _might _negotiate for Earth's surrender. That would buy us some time," Alecto suggested.

"They might. But they might not," Rooke replied.

"You think they'll just attack?"

"Wouldn't you be a little trigger-happy after arriving at a target that took you over a centi-yahren to reach?"

"I see your point. So, what do _we_ do?"

"This," Rooke said, reaching forward and sending an encoded message to the other members of Phoenix Squadron. "_Harrower-squadron, stand-by_."

xxxxx

Starbuck could write a briefing on Advanced Fighter Tactics Against Cylons with his eyes closed. Ironically, he was so tired that he'd almost done just that, as they sped out of New York City, over the Hudson River and into New Jersey, changing _cars_ along the way. Grae Ryan had been indispensable, essentially representing Earth pilots and their perspective, while Starbuck tried to cram his considerable yahrens of combat experience into a pilot-friendly document that would prepare his newest allies worldwide for their inevitable confrontation with an unfamiliar enemy that was far more advanced. He'd also learned a whole lot more about Earth fighter technology along the way. Finally, Ryan had keyed in something on the electronic felgercarb they'd been using, transmitting the briefing to General Roach, wherever he was.

Dense traffic congestion and eye-blinding neon began to wane as they "got on the turnpike" and headed south, their speed picking up as they left the "Big Apple" behind. It was Starbuck's chance to finally close his eyes, succumbing gratefully to an all-encompassing exhaustion. He'd been going full tilt without much reprieve for two solid days. By his calculations, he'd be able to squeeze in a centar of much needed sleep before they arrived at McGuire Air Force Base to rendezvous with Roach and Hummer. Oblivion beckoned and he thankfully sank into her comfortable depths.

Until . . .

"_Grandpa_. I don't have a good feeling about this."

Starbuck woke up abruptly, sensing they'd stopped. They appeared to be on some kind of rural road, trees surrounding them on both sides, the glow and glitter of the city far behind. As he looked about, the only lights around in the middle of the night aside from their headlights were those far ahead of them on the road.

"Some kind of check point?" Dickins asked, rubbing the sleep hastily from his eyes and peering into the distance. He glanced at his chrono. It was two o'clock in the morning. "Where are we, Mitch?"

"According to the GPS, about four miles northwest of the base."

"There's no reason to have a check point on a rural route," Ryan chimed in, opening the car door and climbing out. The others followed suit, leaving the engine running.

"Unless they're afraid we're stealing fresh vegetables or smuggling horses," Dickins added dryly over the roof of the vehicle.

"This is an agro community?" Starbuck asked, sucking in a lungful of air tainted with bovine or equine manure. Thankfully, he'd lost the ability to discern between the two long ago. In the distance he could hear the distinct whinny of equines. Lords, he hadn't ridden since he'd been on Attila. Fleetingly, he wondered about Miri and her family; it seemed like another lifetime, so far apart from this one.

"Agro?" Ryan echoed. "Oh, you mean _agricultural_. Yeah, with some low-density housing thrown in."

"Hey! It looks like they're bringing the mountain to Mohammed, Gramps. What do we do?" Mitch asked tensely.

While the statement made no sense whatsoever to Starbuck, two sets of lights were now slowly heading their way from the roadblock.

"We get the hell out of here!" Dickins replied. "Somehow, if General Roach was giving us a welcoming committee, I think we'd know about it!"

That was when all Hades broke loose.

A staccato burst of gunfire filled the air. Using the car door like a shield, Starbuck dropped to the ground instinctively as the windows shattered. The attack was coming from the field on his side of the vehicle, disputing any faint hope that those manning the roadblock were friendly. Mitch cried out, then crumpled to the ground beside him, his eyes wide with shock. He'd been hit.

"Mitch!" Dickins yelled from the other side of the car.

"Get inside! I've got him!" Starbuck called back.

"_Freeze_!" a bodiless voice ordered from the darkness, as the two vehicles drew closer on the road.

"_In the car_!" Starbuck countermanded, grabbing Mitch and hoisting him upward, then shoving him into the backseat. Ryan and Dickins hastily pulled the young man in from the other side, settling him across their laps in a panicked jumble. Starbuck slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver's seat, deftly sweeping broken glass off the seat. Gunfire erupted around them again. He ducked down in his seat, orientating himself to the car's controls.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dickins hollered at him from the rear seat. "You can't drive this thing!"

"Wanna bet?" Starbuck replied, his study of Mitch's earlier actions paying off as he put the vehicle into gear and shot forward towards the two oncoming cars. It wasn't his intention, but, after all, this was his first time behind the controls of an Earth vehicle, and anything was better than sitting still at this point. "We don't have a lot of options, guys!"

"Other way!" Dickins yelled as his grandson groaned aloud. "Turn around!"

"Too late! I'm committed!" Starbuck replied, heartened by the sudden lack of live ammo flying around him. He stomped down on the accelerator until it hit the floor. The car lurched forward with renewed vigour.

"You _should_ be committed if you're even contemplating playing chicken with those turkeys! This car is lightweight! It'll crumple on impact like an eggshell!" Ryan announced from the backseat, applying pressure to Mitch's wounded shoulder.

"And theirs won't?" Starbuck returned, gritting his teeth as he careened towards the oncoming vehicles, the wind ripping through his hair. They didn't call it "chicken" in the colonies, but he'd still played it . . . and was alive to tell the stories.

"Not sure," Ryan admitted, as the distance between the cars narrowed. "Depends. Most police cruisers are . . . Oh _shittttttttt_!"

Survival instinct versus will; it was a test of nerve. If someone didn't yield, it could very well end up that they'd all die. But then Starbuck had a strong suspicion they'd all be dead anyway if they allowed themselves to be captured. At the last moment, he veered to the left, singling out one car, hoping he'd spook the oncoming driver. Of course, a hasty prayer to the Goddess of Luck about now wouldn't go amiss either . . . The driver suddenly swerved to his right, lurching into the field to avoid a head-on collision.

"_Yee-haw_!" Starbuck whooped, shooting past the other car. For an instant he caught a glimpse of the other driver, mouth wide with shock

"Now what?" Dickins demanded as they screamed towards the roadblock.

"Don't run it, Starbuck!" Ryan shouted. "Their ammunition will cut through this car like butter!"

"What's butter?" Starbuck yelled, cranking the wheel hard to the left. The vehicle become airborne as it left the road and flew into a farmer's field, amidst the terrified yells of his reluctant passengers. It was official; he was piloting a ground vehicle. Starbuck gripped the wheel tightly, and then the Earth car hit the ground hard, giving them a bone-jarring jolt. They lurched and bounced, crashing through tall foliage, as he headed roughly southeast . . . or so he hoped. He couldn't see a damn thing. "Don't suppose your electronic navigator works in an agro worker's field?"

"No!" Ryan replied, holding on for dear life. "Slow down! You don't know what's in front of us!"

"Well, I know what's behind us!" he replied, not backing off the power when he spotted headlights behind them. "How's Mitch?"

"The bleeding's slowing down. I don't think it's critical," Dickins replied in a measured voice. "Anna's still gonna kill me . . ."

"I'm shot!" the young man wailed. "How can it _not_ be critical?"

"It's not critical until your heart stops," Dickins replied pragmatically to the boy. "You're a Dickins; you're going to be fine, son."

"What's that noise?" the young man asked.

"Me biting my fingernails in terror at Starbuck's driving," Ryan replied, cocking his head to the side as a slight _whomping_ noise began to grow in volume. He inadvertently smacked his head against the door as the car lurched to one side. "Ow! Chopper blades?" he then asked Dickins.

"Oh, that's just great!"

"What is it?" Starbuck asked, getting a bad feeling that he knew, despite not knowing.

"It's an attack helicopter, I'm guessing," Ryan replied as the thundering noise filled the night and a search light far in front of them cut through the darkness. "Could be the new _Defender_. It's a transport and gunship combo."

"Gunship? That doesn't sound good. Targeting capabilities, Ryan?" Starbuck asked as the car pitched to the right, two wheels coming off the ground. He gritted his teeth, holding on tight, determined not to lose control. "C'mon, baby . . ." The car obediently dropped back down on all fours.

"Deadly. It has radar that can easily lock on us, infrared tracking scanners, a full suite of electronic jamming gear, EMP pulse, missiles, rockets, even a 30 mm Chain Gun that can finish us off! Pick one!"

"Right now, being the constable back on Serenity is looking good by comparison!"

"Huh?" asked Dickins.

"I'm beginning to wish the Thirteenth Tribe went the other way when they left Kobol," Starbuck said. "Somewhere on the other side of the universe could be a veritable paradise that I'm missing out on right now, all because some idiot went left instead of right when they entered the void."

"You don't like Earth, Starbuck?" Ryan asked wryly, grunting as the front end dipped dramatically and they screamed down a hillside that none of them knew was there the micron before.

"I'm gonna throw up!" Mitch promised.

"So far Earth is _not_ my idea of salvation!" Starbuck replied, as retching in the backseat replaced the deafening _thumping_ of the attack helicopter as the primary sound effect filling his ears. An acrid odour wafted forward.

"Well, at least _you're_ not covered in blood and vomit!" Dickins reasoned.

"Give me time," Starbuck returned, wincing against a blinding light that engulfed them as the attack helicopter swept towards them like a giant bird of prey. Behind them, their pursuers were still coming. Somehow, Starbuck knew instinctively the gunship was targeting and acquiring. Abruptly, he heard the horrifying scream of incoming fire. He saw trees to his left, and cranked the wheel hard to try to evade enemy fire, the car abruptly corkscrewing through midair. "_Fra-ackkkkk_!" he screamed as they shot into the blackness.


	47. Chapter Sixteen: Part One

Chapter Sixteen

The car slammed to a bone-jarring halt, the momentum thrusting Starbuck forward into the steering wheel. A stabbing pain in his skull heralded an ensuing blackness, but his reprieve was annoyingly brief.

A moment later, a shout and a tylinium grip on his shoulder demanded his return from insensibility. Vaguely, he became aware of cold water enveloping him, rising up his body at an alarming rate. For a moment, he thought he was back on Planet 'P', trapped beneath the ocean in a Cylon Raider. He was chest-deep before he remembered he was in an Earth car, which against all odds he had apparently crash-landed in some body of water in an agro worker's field. _It could only happen to you, Bucko . . . _

"_Starbuck!_ " someone was screaming at him, a fistful of the warrior's shirt in his grip. "_Wake up_!"

It was hard not to when ice cold water was clawing its way up your body, hungry for a victim to drag down into its deadly depths. He hadn't come all the way to Earth to die in a crypt of his own making. He could feel the determined grip loosen, and then slip away, as the same voice cried out bitterly in failure. Starbuck sucked in a deep breath, while the bitter chill crept up his throat, swallowing him whole, as the car pitched perilously downward.

His body was sluggish, slow to respond to his demands with the shock of the cold. He clawed at the jagged edges of the window, feeling the warmth of his own blood mix with the frigid deep as he struggled to free himself. His chest ached with the urge to draw in another breath, while the weight of the transport pulled him further down. Then the vehicle shuddered as it abruptly hit a solid surface, his descent suddenly ending.

It should have been simple from that point. Just pull himself out of the window and float to the surface. But something he couldn't put his finger on called him back.

Drawn by an irresistible force, Starbuck reached behind him, his hand waving through the coldness of the backseat, needing to reassure himself that Dickins, Ryan and Mitch had made it out before he cleared the area. Instead of the emptiness he was hoping for, his hand brushed up against solid flesh. A milli-centon later, a hand gripped his arm, desperately clawing at him. Not only was someone else trapped in the cold darkness, he was still conscious!

Starbuck turned, pulling on the arm in the darkness, yanking with all his strength as the trapped man stubbornly stayed put. Something back there had him holed up more tightly than an Otori holy virgin before Sunstorm. Starbuck's chest burned and his head swam, but he renewed his efforts, reaching over the seat, trying to find whatever was snaring the man. Then something began pulling at his waistband, jerking him backwards from his would-be rescue attempt.

A powerful arm gripped him around his neck, pulling him backward insistently as he fought uselessly for purchase. He tore at the grip futilely, realizing he was losing the battle as the salvage scrape of the broken glass bit into his flesh on his way through the window. He felt like his lungs would burst as they headed upwards, breaking the surface a few microns later.

Starbuck sucked a breath into his starved lungs, sputtering and gasping as his head began to clear. Spotlights were shining in his eyes from the shoreline, and he couldn't see a frackin' thing. He twisted viciously in the determined grip, desperate to get back down there to help, assuming he could even find the car again in the darkness. Frack, what if it was Dickins . . . any of them, really . . . he had to try, damn it! He reached over his shoulder, grasping a hold of something solid—realizing it was a dive mask—and twisting it off. Then he jabbed his fist into the man's nose, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage giving way. There was a cry of pain as the grip on him loosened. He kicked himself free, taking a few strokes to put some distance between them. He had to get below the surface again before someone opened fire . . .

"_Starbuck_!" a familiar voice bellowed from the brightness that was blinding him. "This is General Roach! Stand-down, Captain! We're here to help!"

"Roach?" It came out more as a strangled croak as he inadvertently slipped below the surface, swallowing a mouthful of water, before coming back up for air. He tossed his head, shaking his sodden hair from his eyes, wincing at the resulting pain at the front of his brow. Warm ooze was trickling down his forehead from his hairline. Inexplicably, now that he realized he wasn't in danger of being imminently assassinated, he didn't feel so well. "Roach!" he coughed as he swallowed another mouthful of water. "There's . . . there's someone down there! He's trapped!"

"I have Special Operations Divers in the water, Captain. They'll get him!" the voice from the intense brightness replied. "Just stand-down!"

If he could only remember . . . in cases like this was he supposed to go _towards_ the light or run away from it as fast as he could? He dipped below the waterline again, his head swimming much better than he was, in fact. His limbs felt heavier than usual, responding woodenly, now that he'd stopped punching people. His shoes seemed to be filled with condensed tylinium, pulling him downward . . . the water rising up around him.

A strong arm came around him from behind, pulling him upward, a gruff voice warning him a moment after he'd broken the surface, "Hit me again, and you'll regret it."

"I already . . . do . . ." Starbuck coughed, feeling himself get pulled degradingly towards shore on his back, but able to do little about it as the thudding in his head began to keep time with the thumping of the helicopter blades in the background. It seemed like only a few microns later that he was being pulled out of the water, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Something was ablaze in the distance, and it occurred to him that the attack helicopter had been targeting their pursuer, not them. He was supported between two burly Air Force officers and led towards the gunship. Within, a glassy-eyed Mitch was already being bandaged up, while his grandfather and Hummer looked on in concern. The Colonial technician's face lit up with relief when he spotted Starbuck.

"You're all right!" Hummer exclaimed.

"Yeah." Starbuck staggered to a halt, looking back over his shoulder anxiously towards the small lake. Evidently, it was Paddy's son still down there . . .

"We'll get him out," Roach said, suddenly in front of him. He turned Starbuck towards him, looking at him critically. "Are you okay, Captain?"

"Who were those guys?" Starbuck asked, as a medic suddenly attached herself to his forehead. He weaved slightly on his feet, swallowing down a wave of nausea. Apparently, since married life, he didn't react so well to soulful eyes, dark brown hair, and soft hands that gently guided him to a sitting position. For some reason, he figured Lu would be glad to know that. He perched on the edge of the helicopter cabin, while the medic stroked the hair out of his face, tenderly examining his head wound with a sorrowful expression before applying some kind of ointment that stopped the bleeding and apparently sealed the wound. He smiled at her.

"He's probably concussed, General," the beauty claimed.

Starbuck frowned. At second glance, was that the shadow of a moustache on her lip . . . ?

"Mason's men," Roach was saying. "I'm guessing they tracked the signal on the Sat-Phone when Ryan sent that coded briefing to me. It wouldn't take much in the way of brains to figure out where you were going."

"General! We have Ryan!" a voice called out to him. "He's all right, sir!"

"Thank the Lord," Starbuck said, looking at Dickins in relief. "How's Mitch?"

"Whiny," the old astronaut replied, grinning when his grandson protested. "You'd think he'd been shot or something." He nodded at Roach. "You came through for us, General. Thanks for that."

"It's what I do, Captain Dickins," Roach replied. "The UN is still deliberating. The United Kingdom exercised their veto after the Cylon's speech. Some of those idiots are still convinced that the Cylons are going to offer some kind of Armistice."

"You've got to be kidding me," Starbuck replied, shaking his head. His words to the Security Council had fallen on deaf ears, apparently.

"In my experience, idiocy is limitless in a bureaucratic arena, Starbuck," Roach replied. "WASA is tracking that Cylon ship. We're almost out of time."

It was like President Adar and the Council of Credulous all over again. Adar. _Asar_? Starbuck coughed sharply at the coincidence, and then looked up. "And?"

"We've taken things into our own hands, Starbuck," Roach said. "There are military coupes going on all over the world, many of them unofficially sanctioned by their own governments to get around Asar's Universal Law. Despite the chaos, we're as ready for the Cylons as we're going to get. Asar's losing control. Even he must realize that by now." He let out a mirthless chuckle at the thought, turning as Ryan appeared, sodden, but on his feet. "I've already transmitted your briefing to our allies, Starbuck, but President Gibson wants you up there, leading our attack. We're trying to figure out some way to get your Wraith back from the UN. Can you fly, son? Are you up for it?"

Starbuck looked skyward, letting out a deep breath. Getting back in the cockpit—any cockpit—would feel like paradise. "Yes, sir. It's what _I_ do."

xxxxx

The Base Ship scanned as she orbited, making detailed, meticulous maps of the surface. Every city, town, settlement and military or economic installation of any appreciable size would be laid waste before this day was done. The planet would, as the Imperious Leader had directed, be cleansed of the human infestation.

Seventy-one percent of the blue and white planet below was covered in water. Curiously, humans were composed of a similar percentage of water. Most of that water was saline, and, curiously, humans also contained appreciable amounts of that compound. Commander Syphax wondered momentarily why this colony was so far from the others. Also, how had the Imperious Leader known it even existed? That these humans descended from the same stock as the rest was beyond doubt. However, why it was so far removed and why it was far less advanced puzzled him. It made no sense. He weighed if these points were relevant in any way as he prepared to destroy Earth and her inhabitants, not only in retribution for annihilating his squadron, but also as his primary objective for this mission that had lasted over a centi-yahren.

The primary objective of every Cylon: The Edict of Termination.

"Receiving-transmissions-from-Earth," a centurion reported.

"I am not surprised," Syphax replied. Humans were inclined to talk. It was one of their many failings and had served the Alliance well in the past. Get them talking, deceive them, then attack. A moment later he was listening to the incoherent babble of their primitive race. However, even their vast translation matrix couldn't decipher it all at once. It would take some time.

Another conundrum. Not one of the languages being detected from below showed any appreciable similarity with Colonial Standard or any of the other dialects used in the previously human colonies..

Why?

"Commander. I-have-located-several-targets-that-match-your-criteria," a centurion reported.

"On screen, Centurion."

"By-your-command."

Syphax had somewhat expected that there may be more than one such structure, but the endless choices before him were surprising. Apparently, these humans had a propensity for the pyramidal structures that their forefathers—on their legendary and possibly mythical motherworld—had once favoured. Considering the language difference here on Earth, this coincidence was intriguing. "Cross reference with population density in each location, Centurion."

"By-your-command."

Within centons the correlating data came in. If the first strike was to be symbolically significant in a Colonial historical sense, then he might as well annihilate as many humanoids as possible at the same time. Efficacy in termination was one of his most impressive leadership qualities . . . if he did say so himself.

"Prepare the mega-pulsar, Centurion. Coordinates: thirty-six degrees, five centons, forty-three point six seven microns north. One hundred and fifteen degrees, ten centons, thirty-two point nine four microns west."

"By-your-command."

"Commander. Receiving-emergency-encoded-message-from-_Harrower_-Patrol-Leader."

"_Harrower_ Patrol Leader?" Syphax repeated incredulously, glancing at the scanner. The squadron had suddenly appeared from behind Earth's moon. The _Harrower_ had been one of three Cylon Base Ships sent on separate trajectories into deep space over a hundred yahrens ago, its largely exploratory mission to discover and map out new star systems. What was it doing here?

"Affirmative."

"What does it say, Centurion?"

"_Abort-mission-on-orders-of-the-Imperious-Leader_."

xxxxx

The Cylon Base Ship had decelerated into orbit and was now at an altitude of three hundred and fifty kilometrons over Earth, at an inclination of twenty-five degrees to the equator. She would complete one circuit of the planet every fifty-seven minutes. Precisely. Signals of all frequencies and amplitudes were being beamed at it from ground sources and various satellites, but all attempts at communicating with the imposing vessel had thus far failed. The Cylons just didn't seem chatty. Jess had no expectations of forging _any_ kind of amiable relations with the ship that had presumably arrived to eradicate the last known bastion of humankind; however, establishing communications would buy them a little more time.

"Contact General Roach. This could be as simple as the Cylons not understanding our message," Jess told Orlov. "We need Starbuck to translate before he launches."

"Captain Starbuck is much in demand," Surkov commented, turning his attention from his own duties. "If he runs after two hares, he will catch neither."

Jess glanced at him, a sudden image of Starbuck with two Playboy bunnies came to mind. She shook it away. Surkov was right. Starbuck had enough on his plate right now without wasting his time talking to Cylons. "Nix that, Orlov."

"Affirmative." Orlov replied.

"Surkov, do we have anything? Anything at all?" Jess asked, racking her brain. "What about the exoatmospheric kill vehicles on the missiles? Do we have any chance at detonating their—what did Starbuck call it?—their laser torpedo pulsar where it can do the least amount of harm to Earth?"

"Missile Defence Systems are standing by worldwide, Jess," Surkov nodded. "We have no way of knowing how successful it will be at this point."

"Dayton, Armstrong Lunar Outpost is reporting a squadron of Cylon fighters . . ."

"What? Another one?" She checked the data. "Oh, just great."

"Director, Colonel Bradshaw on line," Miirski reported.

"This had better be good news." Surely, it could only mean . . . "Put him on."

"_Director Dayton, this is Colonel Bradshaw of the 721__st__ Mission Support Group at Cheyenne Mountain. NORAD is with you_."

"Well, it's about bloody time, Colonel."

xxxxx

His ship and his best friend possessed by some kind of alien contraption that would ultimately consume everyone aboard, Earth about to be attacked by Cylons as he sat idly by, it was one of those complex situations that Mark Dayton could readily admit to not being qualified to handle. He came damn close to hugging Ama when she mysteriously appeared from nowhere for the second time since arriving in Earth's system, a weird glow shining from her talisman that reflected onto the Oculus she was holding. He'd never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life, and he suspected the rest of his crew felt the same way.

"What took you so long?" he asked her in his characteristic manner.

"I was flossing," she replied with her maddening gapped-tooth smile.

Dayton shook his head at her, not wasting any more time on chitchat. "It's the bloody _Clavis_. It's infiltrated our systems, taking them over one by one until we were dead in the water. Then it took over Paddy." He waved a hand at Ryan, still physically attached to the Clavis, but looking wan and spent, as if his very life force was being devoured. "I don't know what he was thinking when he grabbed a hold of it, but he's been upright, comatose and shining like a neon cigar store Indian since he did."

"What is it, Ama?" Porter asked her.

"An ancient entity, Jimmy-Porter," she replied, the Oculus in her hand seeming to spark at one point, the light following the seemingly endless path of the intricate metal knot which comprised it, signifying a mystical eternity. "It feeds on whatever energy is available until sufficiently sufficed."

"You couldn't have mentioned this after Morlais?" Baker groused.

"I did not know its nature _then_," she replied.

"But you do now?" Apollo asked.

"I know _many_ things now that I didn't before." She sighed, raising the Oculus in her hands, regarding it almost distastefully. "Maybe _too_ many."

"Do you know if Starbuck and Dayton's daughter are still alive?" Apollo asked.

"Lauren," Dayton interjected.

"They're alive." Ama nodded.

"Are they in danger?" Dayton demanded.

"All of Earth is in danger, Mark-Dayton. The nature of Starbuck and your daughter put them more at risk than most. They are warriors for goodness and light."

"We don't have time for the mystical mumbo jumbo, Ama," Dayton told her. "We're in trouble. _Real_ trouble."

"It is not the _Clavis_ itself that attacks your ship, Mark-Dayton, it's the source of its power. A separate, yet symbiotic entity that once thrived contentedly on the collective psionic powers of the whole Espridian people, it became dormant for over a hundred yahrens after consuming the considerably more powerful quantifiable energy of Cylon mega-pulsar blasts and nuclear fusion warheads which destroyed the Espridian nation."

"Are you saying that after a long hibernation, this . . . this _entity_ woke up _hungry_?" Dayton asked in disbelief, looking over at Baker and Porter. With Ryan, Malus and Jolly, they had brought it aboard the _Endeavour_ to transport their ship through time and space, the way the Espridians had once done.

"And it's consuming all available energy sources, both mechanical and organic, in an attempt to regain those same energy levels as it acquired _after_ the Cylon attack?" Apollo asked.

"Sounds like a junkie trying for an all-time high," Baker mused.

"So if it took a nuclear holocaust to put it into a state of dormancy the last time," Dorado said, "how the bloody hell do we stop it now?"

Ama smiled. "I do have an idea, but first I need to attend to Paddy-Ryan." She walked over to him, raising a hand towards his forehead, stopping just short of touching him. "Couldn't you have just _told_ them that you sensed it was dangerous, Dear Heart?" She smiled slightly, her gaze flickering to Dayton and back. "Ah, yes. Then it would be Mark-Dayton standing here, and not you. I understand. Stubborn as a mountain caprine, you are."

She raised the Oculus in both hands, letting it rest just above the _Clavis_. The necromancer closed her eyes for a micron, and the metal thread of the Oculus sparked again, and then began to glow. Bit by bit, the infinite thread that wound its way through the intricate design began to shine resplendently. An eerie hum began to fill the air, and an electrical charge seemed to pass from one orb to the other, the spark constant between the two.

"How do you like that, Ancient One?" Ama said, slowly removing her hands from the Oculus, and dropping them to just above where Ryan's were resting on the Clavis. Impossibly, the Oculus stayed in place, suspended in mid-air over the Espridian orb. "Taste its power, Venerable One, feel its energy. So much better suited to one such as you over this old bucket of bolts and her crew."

"I hope to God she knows what she's doing," Dayton muttered, every muscle taut as he noticed the glowing light begin to retreat from where it had encroached on his bridge. It was as if the Oculus and the Clavis had formed some kind of energy conduit.

Then Ama drew in a deep breath, an almost angelic smile on her features, as she slipped her hands beneath Ryan's, breaking his contact with the _Clavis_. He slumped to the deck limply.

"Cassiopeia!" Dayton said sharply.

But the med tech was already at Ryan's side, her biomonitor in hand. One of these days she was going to get herself killed leaping into some unpredictable situation for the sake of a patient. Dayton was on his knees across from her a moment later, leaning over Ryan, feeling a warm breath on his cheek as he watched his friend's chest rise and fall. Ryan groaned quietly, his head lolling to one side. His eyelashes fluttered. Still, Dayton looked up at his lady expectantly.

"Well?"

"He seems fine," Cassie replied, shaking her head in confusion as she leaned back on her heels. "Bio-signs are reading normal. I don't understand. At the very least, his electrocardiogram should be irregular. But . . ."

"Man, that was some trip," Ryan murmured, raising a trembling hand to his face. "Reminds me of that Def Leppard concert in Halifax in 2000 . . ." He tried to rise.

"Idiot!" Dayton cursed him, grabbing two fistfuls of his friend's shirt. "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?"

"Hey, I didn't see it coming; she seemed like such a nice girl." Ryan blinked blearily, slurring his words, and gripping Dayton's hands. "Next thing I know, she's got my wallet, my clothes _and_ my dignity. Shouldn't have started on that Acapulco Gold . . . _Oh, Mexico._" He began to sing quietly, smiling and closing his eyes."_It sounds so simple I just got to go. The sun's so hot I forgot to go home. Guess I'll have to go now_."

Dayton shook his head, letting his friend go. He could feel a strange prickling at the back of his neck . . .

"_Commander_," Apollo said tensely.

Dayton looked up, following Apollo's gaze to the necromancer standing above him. Like the _Clavis_ and Oculus, her robes were glowing resplendently, but her face was also effulgent with a seraphic quality difficult to define. Her hands remained wrapped around the _Clavis_, as though she had simply taken Ryan's place as its latest organic victim. The difference being that while Paddy had looked haggard and drawn, Ama looked magnificent, as though she was the benefactor of the latest exchange of energy.

"Cassiopeia," Dayton murmured in warning, backing up. He reached an arm around Paddy, pulling him along the deck as the three retreated. His friend was still singing softly, doing a passable James Taylor.

"_Americano got the sleepy eye, but his body's still shaking like a live wire. Sleepy Senorita with the eyes on fire_." Ryan opened his eyes again, looking directly at Ama. "_Oh, Mexico. It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low. Moon's so bright like to light up the night. Make everything all right_."

"Ama?" Apollo said.

"The life force of endless ages," she said, her grey eyes snapping open. "I didn't realize how intoxicating it could be. I suppose there are some things that one must figure out for herself."

"_Ama_ . . ." Dayton growled, getting a bad feeling about this.

She smiled at him then, holding his gaze for a long moment before looking back at the Oculus. It was still suspended in place over the _Clavis_, a sparking energy current pulsing between the two. Ama pursed her lips slightly, as if to gently blow.

Abruptly, the Oculus dropped, and a blinding blaze of energy engulfed them all.


	48. Chapter Sixteen: Part Two

Samael Asar's private office in the United Nations Complex was sparingly decorated, but with the finest quality and most discriminating taste of furniture and art, appealing to a sensibility that Baltar had acquired during his mortal life. While the names were new to him, the styles were not: A gold leaf rubbed Louis XIV desk below a Raphael on one side of the room, with both a Rembrandt and a verMeer on the other; a liquor cabinet, fully stocked with only the very best; glasses of hideously expensive lead crystal, over three hundred years old, and once the property of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte; a conference table looted from an Italian Palazzo; books both rare and rich that filled a cabinet which had once graced the private apartments of Lorenzo the Magnificent; and a map of the world, drawn by the hand of the great Amerigo Vespucci himself. Above a fireplace was a portrait of the French Emperor himself, Jacques-Louis David's _Napoleon Crossing The Alps._ He wondered for a moment, as he assimilated this knowledge, if Asar took the same pleasure in the pieces that Baltar once had—pleasure in art and beauty, appreciation for the glorious talent of these craftsmen—or if he decorated his office with them merely because he somehow felt it was his due as Secretary-General of the United Nations.

Or if maybe it was all just ego.

The UN leader breezed into the room, heading straight for his desk. Once there, he accessed his computer, and a holoprojection come up of a dark-skinned man. Asar started talking through some communicator that Baltar couldn't even see. Apparently, Asar was mid-conversation, and for the sake of propriety was now face to face with the person he was speaking to.

"Yes, this Captain Starbuck seemed most convincing, but it seems there is much that he _didn't_ tell us, and I for one, don't trust him. The way Lucifer tells it, presuming we _can_ ward off a Colonial invasion, there are over a hundred thousand desperate refugees out there making their way towards Earth, victims of so-called Colonial _brotherhood_, Dosanjh. _A hundred thousand_! Can you imagine that? It's an immigration nightmare!" Asar snorted briefly. "Think about the reaction of the average citizen every time Boat People show up in _your_ waters currently, jumping the queue. Imagine the vitriolic criticism when _these_ refugees from the stars start arriving. And that's the _best _case scenario, assuming Earth isn't completely destroyed by then. These Cylons are our best chance at defending ourselves from both situations. Lucifer has already assured me he'll arrange to have Cylon military ships turn away any potential star refugees bent on abusing our goodwill, the media need not even know about it. Apparently, there are plenty of other planets in this part of the Milky Way which they could settle on without leeching off of us." He paused. "Yes, you think about it some more, my friend. I'll speak with you later, when Lucifer has made contact with his Cylon friends. My regards to your lovely Parminder, as always."

He nodded once, closing the discussion, then gave his computer screen his complete attention. After checking his correspondence, he finally paused to regard the security feed of Starbuck's Espridian Wraith, still under guard at the front of the UN Complex. Asar's face was impassive as he studied the alien ship. The dark-skinned man looked younger than his seventy yahrens, his hair still mostly black and his physique fit. Assuming political control of his planet apparently agreed with his constitution.

Baltar sauntered over, settling himself in the chair—once the property of Catherine The Great—opposite the powerful Earthman's desk. Asar couldn't see him_. _Yet. Timing was critical. As Baltar had learned from a thousand business and bureaucratic deals, the moment had to be just right.

Across from him, Asar gasped aloud as he watched the screen. His face twisted in angry disbelief, and he swore in his native Arabic. He reached for the communication device on his desk . . .

"That won't be necessary," Baltar told him, smiling as the other gasped again, this time in consternation, as he looked around trying to place the unknown voice. Baltar touched the bureautician's hand. "And now you can see me, Samael Asar."

Asar's mouth gaped open and he leapt to his feet in shock as he beheld the Being of Light in front of him. John was right. This really was the best part . . .

"Who are you? How did you get here?" Asar demanded, a glimmer of fear lurking just below the surface of his outrage.

"The same way Captain Starbuck's ship just disappeared before your security cameras," Baltar replied reasonably. He stood. "Allow me to introduce myself, Secretary-General Asar. I am Count Baltar."

"_Count_ Baltar?"

"One, two, three, four, five . . ." the reformed traitor of humanity smiled lazily as the other stared at him dumbfounded. Then the look of realization and indignation that abruptly crossed Asar's face made Baltar laugh out loud. It reminded him all too much of himself at another time. He sat again, linking his fingers together, and leaning forward. "My apologies. Apparently, I've been spending too much time with a baser level of humanity. Where I come from, one goes where one is assigned."

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Asar's hand hovered over a security alert pad on his desk.

Baltar shook his head. "I assure you, that won't be necessary. I won't harm you. I'm not actually _capable_ of harming you." He hesitated for a moment, while the other pulled back his hand ever so slightly. "That's better. For the sake of simplicity, your people would refer to me as an angel, a Being of Light. My purpose here is to prevent you from selling out _your_ people, as I once did mine."

"An _angel_ . . . selling out . . ." Asar's lips continued to move, but no sound came out. Until: "You're insane!"

"Count Iblis can be very persuasive, no matter what form he takes," Baltar assured him, recognizing how the bureautician suddenly paid rapt attention when the name "Iblis" passed his lips. "Oh yes. He and I are old . . . acquaintances. And by the time he finally approaches you, you have already realized that you are different from your peers, _better_ . . . more deserving of prominence and recognition. _You _are a breed apart, singled out by the gods, predestined for a position of supreme eminence." Asar narrowed his eyes. "Iblis promises power. Riches beyond belief. He vows he will spare those under your immediate protection, those that your somewhat _limited_ conscience keep in mind during the negotiations. Speaking for myself, I was so overcome by my own importance and by his reliance on _me_ that I believed everything he said. Does that sound familiar, Asar?" Baltar asked, seeing the answer plainly written on the other's face. If he looked hard enough, he could see Asar bowing down before Iblis, granting him dominion. "But the power is Iblis' alone; the riches a lie; and the death of your own humanity and civilization, the only certainty."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Asar grunted, but his pallor and hesitation to call for help said otherwise.

"Captain Starbuck told your people the truth. The Cylon, Lucifer, is not the Light Bearer that you believe him to be, but another instrument of evil utilized by Count Iblis to do his bidding." Baltar paused. "As are you, Asar."

"I do _no_ man's bidding, save my own!" Asar avowed.

"Yes, I said the same," Baltar said bitterly, "but then Iblis is not a mortal man. My own ego would not let me believe I was being tricked by a creature so old and so evil that many were afraid to even utter his name aloud."

"Bah! Supernatural nonsense!"

"Is it?" Baltar asked. "Then tell me where Captain Starbuck's ship went." He nodded towards the vid feed that showed security personnel running around in an almost comedic way at the front of the UN, trying to find the spacecraft. "Explain to me how the _Endeavour_ Space Shuttle could suddenly reappear forty-four of your years after it disappeared. Rationalize why every termination or frame-up you've recently ordered has failed. Tell me it was simply a coincidence that at the very time a nuclear _accident_ occurred at Barstow Station on Mars, a Colonial vessel arrived in time to save the survivors, also recovering proof that an ancient civilization had once thrived there."

Asar's mouth dropped open, his face even more a mask of shock. He sat heavily in his chair.

"Yes. We know about that as well." He waved a hand and Asar's holoprojection flickered to a new image. They could see the damaged base on Mars, the corpses of those murdered inside, the mountains of treasure in the ancient tomb, and many other of his group's "secrets". Now, it appeared, they were secret no longer. "There are powerful forces representing both good _and_ evil in our universe, Asar. Strangely, even learned men have difficulty telling them apart." He glanced up at the Raphael, _Madonna dei Garofani_, then pointed a finger at the man. "_You_ are on the wrong side."

Asar opened his mouth, but only a gurgle passed his lips. He swallowed.

"Only once did Count Iblis speak the truth to me. He said I would go down in history," Baltar continued. "And I did. Amongst the scant remains of my people I will forevermore be known as Count Baltar: the Betrayer of Mankind." He drew in a ragged breath. "Eternity is a long time to churn in the acrid depths of guilt and regret, Asar, forever humbly trying to repay your debt." Asar stared at him in a fascinated horror. Baltar stood again. "But I have not come simply to berate you—although you certainly deserve it—instead, I offer you a gift, Samael Asar."

"A . . . a gift?"

"Yes, a cherished gift. A gift I wish someone had offered me before my ego became the instrument of death for billions." He swallowed down his self-loathing, remembering when Ama had finally considered him worthy of consideration for redemption. He had to prevent Asar from following the same path he had once chosen. He had to prevent history from repeating itself on this side of the galaxy. "I offer you the opportunity to change your mind before it is too late. Too late for your immortal soul, and too late for the people of Earth. Decide."

xxxxx

"First stop, explosives and sundry items," Ensign Acastus quipped, sweeping the room with his weapon as he paused in the hatchway. Alas, it had been decided that solenite charges were not part of the requisite survival gear carried by an _Endeavour_ pilot. It was an oversight in Acastus' opinion, and one he'd be certain to mention to his superior officer at the next opportunity.

Provided he got one.

So far their luck had held as they made their way from Beta Bay to the armoury. As bizarre as it seemed, they'd managed to avoid engaging any Cylons. It raised the question, just where did centurions go when they finished patrol? Did they have a barracks, like human pilots? Did they get debriefed, and then put on some sort of stand-by? Perhaps, like human warriors, they had other duties beyond flying combat? It made him realize how little, after a thousand yahrens of war, they actually knew about their enemies.

"It's exactly where the armoury is on the _Endeavour_," Trevanian said, standing at the hatchway. It was a non-descript door, labelled, imaginatively, ARMOURY. Mentally crossing his fingers, he keyed in the code to the panel. After what seemed like an eternity, the panel _beeped,_ a flashing light stabilized and the door slid open. After a last check of the corridor, they stepped into the room and began to collect solenite charges.

"Did you ever think you could learn to appreciate the monotony of Cylon design?" Lambda joked, picking up a pulse rifle, weighing it in one hand.

"Or the fact that Malus was right about the slight variation in the _Abaddon_-class access codes from one ship to another," Trevanian returned. The IL had identified the correlation after "plugging in" to the _Harbinger_'s systems over Morlais.

"I sure won't complain," said Xenia.

"What do you wanna bet their ships were built by the lowest bidder?" Acastus grinned, examining the timers on the charges.

"_Do_ Cylons bid?"

"Only at a pyramid table, according to Starbuck."

"I just hope they're agreeable to sticking with our plan and allowing us to blow up the mega-pulsars," Cadet Teles said lightly, pushing a tendril of blonde hair back from her forehead as she moved to help Trevanian.

"Hopefully, they read the rewrites for the new script," Xenia added as she kept watch by the door.

"All right, everyone, listen up," Acastus ordered. "Those Raiders will be refuelling and getting ready for another attack on Earth. So while our centurion counterparts are getting briefed, lubed, recharged or whatever it is they do, getting around on this barge should be relatively easy. These guys don't exactly have the change of shift running around, overcrowding the corridors, if you know what I mean. He pulled the data pad from the holster on his leg. Holding it up, he said, "Okay, team, one more time." He pressed a key and a holographic image sprouted to life. The same with the rest. The image of the _Ravager_ zoomed in to magnify a section off the Main Engineering room.

"Yes?" asked Lambda.

"Highlighted in red," said Acastus as a flashing red dot indicated the area under discussion. "This is the main power conduit trunk from the Engineering Section to the pulsar batteries." The view shifted once more. "Unlike the more recent ships, this older model has less redundancy in the internal power distribution net. It's part of the reason they scrapped them and developed the _Hades_-class. As you can see here, just three metrons aft of the main ammunition hoist, the power conduit splits at this relay station." Once more the view shifted, zooming in on a mass of equipment and accessways. "The main power conduit for the pulsars splits at this point, one going up, the other down."

"On the _Hades_-class vessels, there are several redundant back-up energizers near both pulsars," said Trevanian. "Power loss can be rectified quickly."

"Exactly," continued Acastus. "But on this class of ship, there are only half as many back-up energizers, and they have a lower rating than that of the newer ships. Meaning that if we blow the power conduits here . . ." he zoomed in again on the relay junction. "power to both upper and lower pulsar batteries will be knocked out."

"And," Trevanian picked up, "if the blast is powerful enough, there should be enough blow-back into the energizers to cause massive overloads all over the ship."

"But, we must be certain, so we still set charges at each pulsar," said Acastus. "Each battery is cooled by vent shafts, here . . ." the holograph moved in, "so climb up there and set your charges. Okay, everyone know what's what?" Apparently they all did. "Final checks on the equipment which the Imperious Leader has so kindly provided for us."

They did so.

"Ready," they all verified within a centon.

"Now," said Acastus, "once we set the charges and make it back to the bay, we don't want their fighters taking off, if we can help it. With whatever charges you have left, tail-pipe any Cylon fighters you can. Once they fire up their engines, the heat . . ."

"Kaboom!" smiled Xenia.

"Right. Kaboom! We do it right and the launch bays will be out of commission until they control the fires. Okay team, Lambda, you two take the Upper Pulsar Station. Xenia and I will take the Lower."

"What about us?" Ensign Trevanian asked as Cadet Ligea cocked her head to listen. Then he grinned. "We get to be Starbuck and Apollo?"

"You owe me, buddy," Acastus chuckled at the other's excitement at having the chance to recreate what was possibly the best-known tactical infiltration mission in the Fleet. "You get the scanners." On the holoreader, he swept the image to an area just above the control centre. On the other side of the bulkhead were the massive data lines and control cables that tied the computers and scanners together. Completely reconfigured on the newer ships, this was a vulnerability not to be passed up. "You guys move down this ventilation duct, part of the cooling system for the computers. Place your charges on these cable trunks here . . . and here, and then get the Hades Hole outta Cyrannis. When the _Endeavour _arrives, we want to give her every advantage we can. Any questions?"

"Won't Commander Dayton be testy if we destroy the Base Ship _for_ him?"

"Yeah, the way he tells it," Trevanian grinned, "that's his favourite part."

"Mine too," Acastus grinned broadly, raking a hand back through his hair, inadvertently mimicking his strike captain. "I'm willing to live with the consequences. Anything else?"

"Yes. While the Cylons are refuelling and getting ready to attack Earth, the chance that some centurions might stumble upon our Hybrids inadvertently is pretty high. What do we do when they notice the adaptations and report them to their commander?" Xenia asked sceptically.

Acastus opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"That's a damn good question, Xenia," Trevanian said, a faint shadow of concern crossing his dark features. "I never thought of that."

"I suppose I figured that if the Hybrids didn't give us away, that the frackin' big explosions blowing the top and bottom off this base ship just might," Acastus finally inserted, pausing as a couple of the others chuckled. "When we're done setting the timers, we head for the nearest landing bay and take whatever fighters we can get to get out of here."

"And how will the _Endeavour_ be able to tell us from the rest of them when we try to land again?" Xenia asked cynically.

Five bright young faces lit up with exuberance as they replied together, "We _waggle_!"

Xenia couldn't help but grin at their enthusiasm in the face of danger. "You guys are having _way_ too much fun . . ."

xxxxx

Lauren would only have a couple minutes before she was blindfolded again. Flanked by two of Shahhosseini's bodyguards, she sighed loudly, checking the messages on her sat-phone as she took the elevator from the penthouse down to the garage. How her sister had time to pester her incessantly about accepting General Roach's offer of a safe house, while simultaneously running the operations of WASA, while at the same time fending off everybody else who wanted a piece of her time, she'd never figure out. Then again, Jess was the multi-tasker and worrier in the family. Even when they were kids. Write an essay, download her favourite tunes, talk with her boyfriend, all while watching TV. God knows how she managed it.

Lauren pushed her dark brown hair back from her face, closing her eyes wearily. She smiled humourlessly, as she digested the mind-numbing fact that it was the Prince of Darkness, literally, who had been responsible for taking her father away from her at such an early age. Ironically, yet another generation of the Dayton family was embroiled in an ongoing war with Count Iblis, as they fought to expose long-hidden secrets regarding who was _really_ ruling the planet and towards what end.

The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. She suddenly found herself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic while Shahosseini's guards stepped back. Part of her mind at once noted it was a Makarov 9mm, the Baikal-442 sporting version with the silencer from Hell. It was a nice piece, and should have been in a collection somewhere. Instead of here, pointed at _her _. . .

"Whoops, wrong floor," she said, wishing the elevator wasn't pre-programmed from the other end. _Damn Eckandar!_ He'd obviously gone along with this. She couldn't go anywhere and she didn't have anything to defend herself with. Such accoutrements weren't permitted in Shahhosseini's presence.

"Depends on your point of view, Ms. Dayton," replied a man in a dark suit. Short-cropped black hair, overcoat heavy but open, and mirrored sunglasses that gave nothing away. Cruelty with a smile. "Step out of the elevator, if you please, or we'll shoot you dead right now."

"Tell Eckandar the book deal is off," she said over her shoulder to the bodyguards as she stepped forward. "He can write his own damn biography."

xxxxx

Flat on his back, his body heavy and tingling, his vision blurred, his stomach roiling, drool running down the right side of his jaw, Mark Dayton awakened feeling as though two lightning bolts had just played tug-a-war with him. There was a low groan to his right. It took some concerted effort for him to recover enough motor function so he finally could turn his head. Even then, he had to blink several times before he could focus in on Colonel Apollo. His executive officer was inch by inch raising himself up onto all fours from the Control Centre deck, breathing labouredly and shaking his head like a dazed dog.

"C'mnder . . ." Apollo muttered thickly, noticing Dayton watching his progress, or lack thereof. "C . . . ."

"Y'kay?" Dayton managed, feeling as though his tongue was an alien piece of flesh, sitting in his mouth, just taking up space. The thought nauseated him. Actually, so did the lights, the sounds, the smells, breathing . . . All around the bridge, the rest of them seemed to be either in a similar state or completely unconscious. "Wh'ar we?"

"Nah shthh-ure," Apollo replied, tediously forcing himself back onto his haunches where he stopped and rested from his efforts. All around them, familiar lights and sounds indicated that the _Endeavour_'s systems seemed to be powering back up. It was a damn shame the crew wasn't.

Dayton couldn't even _begin_ to explain what had just happened. Ama, now conspicuously absent, had dropped the _Oculus _onto the _Clavis, _and then their world had seemed to explode. It was hard to figure out, but he'd felt as though he'd being jerked through a shredder, ripped back and forth between time and space, caught in some kind of battle of power between celestial entities.

Dayton tried to turn over and failed, while beside him Apollo was gruellingly pushing himself to his feet. Here Dayton was on the deck, weak as a kitten, while Colonial Kid Invincible was about to stand up and start dancing. Yeah, it would be nice to be thirty-something again.

"Wh'ar we?" Dayton asked Apollo again.

The colonel took a clumsy step forward and fell flat on his face.

Dayton tried hard not to feel vindicated . . . and failed.

xxxxx

Still soaked to the skin, Starbuck barely gave McGuire Air Force Base a cursory glance in the night lighting as the gunship headed in for a landing. The general layout was not unlike bases back home, and Lords, he'd seen enough of _those_. By now they'd heard the latest reports from WASA, which had been independently confirmed by another agency called NORAD, that the Cylon Base Ship was now in Earth's orbit, and a squadron of Cylon fighters was standing by to attack. Jess Dayton was certain it was the _Ravager _and not the _Endeavour_, but Starbuck couldn't be so sure about the sudden appearance of fighters, which had without warning appeared near Earth's moon. The only ways to find out for certain, other than waiting for the inevitable attack, was either through an attempt at communications, or to go up there himself and take a look. But so far no one in orbit was responding to the codes he had volunteered and spaceworthy ships, at least as _he_ defined the term, seemed few and far between in twenty-first century Earth.

The skin on his chest prickled irritably, and he scratched it idly through his unbuttoned shirt, as the powerful Earth ship near the ground. So far there had been no luck retrieving his Wraith from the well-guarded fortress of the United Nations, which seemingly only let down their guard when there were snipers nearby attempting to assassinate innocent and unsuspecting Colonial strike captains. Meanwhile, according to his chrono, there was only about seven centars until the _Clavis_ self-initiated its way back to the other side of the galaxy. That wasn't a lot of time. Lords, but he wished he knew what was going on up there . . .

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He knew it was Dickins. Mitch was resting fitfully nearby and would be just fine. Ryan was huddled in a blanket, recovering from his near drowning, and Hummer was actually dozing, apparently lulled to sleep by the motion of the attack helicopter . . . or his exhaustion. Starbuck turned his head to raise an eyebrow in question at the Earthling.

"What do you think?" Dick asked, shifting his weight as the gunship set down.

Starbuck shook his head, giving a half-hearted shrug, feeling the wetness of his shirt cling to his skin. He had no way of knowing what would happen next. It was a waiting game. "Fortunately, improvisation is my specialty."

"I thought dumb luck was your specialty."

Starbuck smiled. "Maybe _that's_ why improvisation works so well for me."

Dickens smiled thoughtfully, squeezing Starbuck's shoulder and pushing him towards the door as it slid open. Starbuck disembarked, running a hand idly over his stubbly face as he hit the tarmac. A shave would have to wait, but dry clothes were imperative.

"Hit the dirt!" Roach suddenly shouted from behind him.

Everyone around Starbuck dropped to the ground, while he was still trying to figure out why he should be abusing the landscape. A languaphone failure. He was about to follow their lead when his skin began to crawl, and he turned to see a bizarre shimmering effect eclipsing part of the lit runway.

"What the . . .!" someone yelled.

"Ama . . ." he murmured, squinting against the coalescing evanescence. He rubbed the innervated scar on his chest, _knowing_ she was somehow behind this. Then he slowly started jogging towards the anomaly.

"Starbuck! Get back here!" Roach was yelling from behind him.

The general was getting a little demanding for a guy who technically had no authority over him.

A few microns later, two shapes began to emerge from the diffuse light, taking form. Starbuck's heart leapt and his pace picked up. They were Wraiths!

"Ama, I could kiss you!" he declared as he entered the code to open the canopy. His foot hit the solid metal of the Espridian recon ship and after a quick leap he was peering into the cockpit. It was empty. It was _his._ He dropped to the tarmac again, ducking under the ship's nose and once again entering a code on her sistership. This time when he looked into the cockpit, he saw the helmet of a Colonial Warrior. "Lu!"

She didn't respond, and he quickly pressed his fingers to her neck, detecting a reassuring pulse there. He recalled feeling a little discombobulated himself when he'd been pulled from Kazakhstan airspace to Nevada. Then he had associated it with the _Clavis_. This time, as an outsider, he'd thought it had something to do with Ama. But then again, every time the scar on his chest—burnt there by his Empyrean talisman—bothered him, he associated it with the Empyrean necromancer. It occurred to him it could be a sign or portent . . . either that or he was getting a rash.

"Wake up, sweetheart," he said quietly, gently releasing her harness and undoing the chin strap holding her helmet in place.

Her shaking hands came up to grasp his own. Finally, together they pulled off her helmet. Her head lolled forward before jerking back, like a person catching herself falling asleep. It took a few more microns before she focussed on him, a relieved smile lighting her beautiful face. A milli-centon after that, he was catching her as she leapt into his embrace.

"_Innamorato_ . . ." she whispered throatily.

"Miss me?"

She squeezed him harder, and the twinge of pain in his chest somehow seemed more tolerable this time around. He laughed aloud as she filled his arms and his heart. "Thank the Lords you're okay, Lu," he murmured, stroking her silken hair. "Welcome to Earth."

She laughed too, pulling back to drink in the sight of this planet they had been journeying to for so long. Then she glanced back at him and startled, before looking at him searchingly. Her hand gently caressed the shadow of a bruise on his face. Her radiant smile disappeared and she frowned as she obviously took in his sodden state and his array of contusions. "What the frack happened to you?"

"Earth did," he replied soberly. "But I'm fine now. We're with allies." He nodded towards the approaching soldiers.

It didn't take long for them to make introductions, exchange information and for Luana to brief him on the dire situation with the _Endeavour_, as she knew it, and that the squadron of Cylon fighters scanned near the moon were most probably Hybrids. Starbuck hadn't noticed they'd reverted to Colonial Standard, but Roach's scowling face finally tweaked him to his oversight.

"Sorry, General. I was just saying to my wife that I think it would be best if I took my Wraith back up there to find out the current situation from Lieutenant Rooke." He turned to take a look at his Wraith, ready to begin his pre-flight checks. In his survival gear was an extra pressure suit, but he'd still need to get some dry clothes or he'd begin to chafe.

"I don't think so, Captain," Roach replied in a low, dangerous voice.

That was it! Lords, but he was sick of Roach pulling rank on him when they weren't even in the same military. "Now look, Roach . . ." He pivoted back.

And found himself staring down the barrel of the general's deadly weapon.


	49. Chapter Seventeen: Part One

Chapter Seventeen

Starbuck had a powerful urge to rip the weapon out of Roach's hand and feed it to him muzzle first, as a loose circle of soldiers gathered around him and Lu. He'd trusted the Earth general, and instead of returning that trust, Roach was instead treating him with the same aggressive histrionics as the rest of his ilk. Starbuck clenched his teeth, biting down on his anger before he spoke.

"Roach, I've had enough of your pushing me around. I'm here to save _your_ planet, not _mine_!" he snarled. "Put your fracking weapon away before I shove it down your throat!"

The answering glint in the general's eyes lent a guy to believe he hadn't taken long enough to consider his words.

"I don't think you quite understand just how important your presence _is_ to Earth right now, Captain," Roach said, lowering his weapon slightly so it was no longer pointing at Starbuck's forehead. "I've just arranged the most wide scale military coupe in recorded history, ignoring the United Nation's international laws. What happens next is either going to make us heroes or villains. My allies are _not_ going to appreciate me just letting you just fly out of here, possibly never to return. You don't fully understand the public relations drive happening behind the scenes right now, granted all of us have been too busy to see it. You're our poster boy for this initiative, Starbuck. Myself, my President _and_ my people fully expect you to lead our American task force when the Cylon forces infiltrate our airspace, as you _stated_ you would," he reminded the warrior. Then he snorted. "Starbucks Corporation is bloody well asking for permission to replace its logo with that shot of _you _when you arrived at the UN, for Christ's sake! Whatever happens to Earth and our people is going to happen to you too, goddamn it!"

"And it will, General. But I need to know what the frack is going on up there." Starbuck nodded skyward. "I'm responsible to my own CO, as well as for hundreds of lives aboard _my _ship. I'm the _Endeavour_'s strike captain, which I prioritise above my duties as your gallmonging 'poster boy' . . ."

"You're not _listening_, Captain," Roach growled, holstering his weapon, but reaching forward to grab a handful of Starbuck's shirt.

Starbuck jerked backwards, innately avoiding the hostile posturing. _Rip! _ "Oh, for Sagan's sake . . ." Starbuck muttered, looking down at the tatters of his shirt as he took another step away from the American flag officer, putting some much-needed distance between them before he decked the Chief of Staff. He needed to get control of both his temper _and_ his squadron, but it was just as clear to him that Roach wasn't going to allow that. "How do you get yourself into these fixes, Bucko?" he muttered, carding a hand through his damp hair.

"It's a gift," Lu responded, stepping forward, inserting herself between the two men to diffuse the situation. She deftly pushed Starbuck's torn shirt to the side, examining another large bruise over his ribs. "Allies, huh? An Orion hasher would treat you better." She looked at the general dubiously. He had the grace to appear chagrined.

"It's a long story." Starbuck sighed as she deftly pressed on his tender flesh. He winced at the resulting ache, but let her continue her gentle probing, knowing she needed to satisfy herself that he was really all right.

"No doubt another fascinating Starbuck story behind this," she suggested, tugging the ripped shirt off his shoulder to take a better look at the damage. She sighed heavily as she followed the purple and yellow tracking even further, pulling the wet shirt off his other arm and removing the garment completely while she continued her examination.

While he didn't mind having his wife rip his clothes off, somehow this just didn't seem to be the time or the place. A few female soldiers were suddenly paying rapt attention, including the one who'd diagnosed his apparent concussion. He smiled. Then again . . .

"It _will_ be after my third Empyrean ale in the OC," he replied over his shoulder as his muscles involuntarily contracted beneath her touch. It was difficult to explain, but he was selfishly enjoying her constant touch and concern, not to mention the attention of the female half of the American Air Force. It was kinda nice not to be treated like daggit droppings for a change.

"Can we _not_ give the 'shirtless Starbuck scene' a miss on at least _one_ mission?" Dickins griped from out of the blue, about to climb into a transport with his grandson, but obviously waiting to see what transpired first.

"Not if _I_ can help it," Luana grinned, circling around Starbuck, one hand on his flesh almost possessively until she finally came to a halt in front of him. It seemed that she was laying claim to her territory, which was a little unsettling to the Colonial Warrior at the same time as it was amusing. "Let me go up there, and find out the situation. I'm low on tylium, but if your fuel is adequate, we can take some from your ship."

He considered it.

"Full ECM. I'll be practically invisible," she reminded him.

The truth was now that she was with him again, he didn't want her to go. He could almost hear Dayton in his subconscious going on about fraternization rules and how he'd treat Lu differently from his other subordinate officers. He glanced over at Dickins in the dim light, using the man as the only reasonable sounding board he had down here. If all the doubts in his mind were unfounded, the Earth astronaut would let him know in short order. Dickins nodded at him. Yeah, Starbuck had known what was right, but it didn't make it any easier . . .

"Yeah, until you establish communications. Then they'll be able to track the signal," the strike captain griped. "Ten to one they're going to be looking for you, Lu, especially after you detected them at Saturn."

"It's my duty," she replied pragmatically. "At least that's what my old flight instructor used to tell me."

He raised an eyebrow. "_I'm_ your old flight instruct . . . Hey, who you calling _old_?"

Her answering grin was contagious.

Starbuck turned to Roach. "Would that satisfy you, General? If I send my _wife_, _Ensign_ Luana." Yeah, he'd stressed both her low rank _and_ her gender. Maybe chauvinism had gone out of style on Earth, but amongst most military men it was still a latent tendency.

Again, the Chief of Staff looked suitably uncomfortable. "It would, Captain."

Starbuck nodded, looking back at Lu. "Take my ship. There's plenty of fuel and you'll have the dynamo; you'll be armed."

She nodded, smiling slightly at his overprotective nature and his instinctive reluctance to put her in danger, when he figured it should be _him _going into harms way. However, she knew he was just as protective of the other young officers and cadets under his command. Well, _almost_ . . .

"Captain, just what are _you_ going to fly if your wife's ship is out of fuel?" Roach asked.

Starbuck turned, setting his sights on one of the F-35s that were on display. "How about that?"

"That's the most sophisticated fighter known to man, Captain. Our pilots log over _two thousand_ hours in a simulator before they get to even think of turning an actual wheel on the real thing."

"Begging the general's pardon, but the most sophisticated fighter known to man is actually on a Battlestar, half a galaxy from here," Starbuck corrected him. "I've made my living, such as it is, flying one, and I have over two hundred kills to my credit, not counting Base Ships." Roach sighed. "Look, from what Ryan tells me, I'll be right at home in your fighter. Both a helmet-mounted _and_ a touch screen display, along with a hands-on throttle and stick, _and_ a speech recognition system more effective than our CORA program, thank the Lords for that!" Roach raised an eyebrow, but Starbuck didn't explain. "And from what Ryan said, the basics of starting up, getting airborne, flying and landing are easy." He glanced at the WASA astronaut as he came over to join them. "What did you say, Ryan? That you'd have to be a special kind of stupid to _not_ be able to fly this bird?"

"Something like that," Ryan replied with a grin. "Only after that car ride through the cornfields, I'm not entirely sure what kind of stupid you are!"

"It's a _hundred million_ dollar machine," Roach argued, looking over at the Lightning as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell him, Ryan."

"It's a hundred million dollar machine," Ryan obediently echoed. Then he grinned. "You'll love it, Starbuck. She's the only thing I miss about the Air Force."

"A hundred million, huh?" Starbuck patted down his pockets. "I seem to be a little short. Can I borrow a few till payday, Ryan?" The WASA astronaut turned out his empty pockets. "Tell you what, General . . . you have my permission to let your java shop use my picture as their new logo. With all the shops we saw on the way here, that's gotta be worth something. Besides, Ryan here gave me the low-down on your bird when we were on our way here. And I have a certain reputation as a pilot who can fly anything. I'll be fine."

Roach stared at him in disbelief. "You don't take 'no' for an answer, do you, Captain?"

"No." Starbuck grinned, unable to resist baiting the officer. "It's just an opening for further negotiations until I get my way."

"Yeah? Well then it's no little wonder that my favourite conversations are the ones where my weapon is pointed at your forehead," Roach returned heatedly. "Is _this_ why your superior officer sent you down here on your own? To drive some _other_ poor fool half mad?"

"Just _half_?" Starbuck rejoined pointedly.

"_Ohh_ . . ." It came out as a growl as Roach flushed angrily.

"General, do you have an F-35 simulator here at the base?" Ryan asked, inserting himself into the situation like Luana had before him.

"Of course."

"Then let the simulator decide," Ryan suggested. "If Starbuck crashes, we could always find him a weather balloon to lead the attack." It was an irresistible mental image, and more than one officer around them couldn't help but snicker. "I'm sure President Gibson would be very understanding about why you didn't see fit to clear his poster boy for the F-35."

"Smart ass," Roach said. It was the clincher. What the President wanted, the President got.

"It runs in the family." Starbuck chuckled, slapping a hand on Ryan's shoulder as he turned to see off his wife before heading to the F-35 sim.

xxxxx

To come all this way only to at the last moment be informed by a mere . . . patrol_ leader_ from a Base Ship Syphax hadn't seen for a hundred and four yahrens to cease and desist! It was irritating at the very least. Oh, how very tempting it was to go ahead with the attack on Earth and to ask questions later.

"Commander!" said a centurion.

"Speak."

"We-have-detected-a-vessel-on-the-scanner."

"A vessel?" Syphax crossed to the station to look at the coordinates. "From where?"

"Unknown. It-appeared-suddenly-and-correlated-with-a-spatial-distortion."

"_Another_ spatial distortion? Similar to the one we detected at the ringed planet?"

"Affirmative-Commander. However-this-anomaly-was-more-powerful."

"Identify vessel, Centurion."

"Scans-indicate-it-is-Cylon."

"Cylon?" repeated Syphax, moving to the other's station.

"Confirmed, Commander. It-is-a-Base-Ship. _Abbadon-_class."

"Interesting," said Syphax. "The _Harrower_?"

"Identity-code-transmission-verifies-it-is-the-_Harrower_."

Syphax shifted his processors into accelerated mode, wondering what the other Base Ship was doing here in this system. Did they truly carry news from the Imperious Leader? New orders? What would necessitate an order countermanding the Edict of Extermination? This mystery consumed his processors for nearly four microns.

"Commander," said the first centurion. "Both-Mega-Pulsar-batteries-report-ready-to-fire. Awaiting-your-order."

"Hold, Centurion." He turned to the other functionary. "Hail the _Harrower_, Centurion."

"By-your-command."

xxxxx

The _Endeavour _had abruptly appeared in a frenetic burst of pan-spectrum energy wavelons, but thus far was not responding to their hail. It was kinda . . .

"Spooky," Ensign Alecto remarked. "Just like when Ensign Luana disappeared in her Wraith without warning."

"Yeah," Rooke replied, his stomach still silently churning over the fact that he'd lost Starbuck's wife while in command of Phoenix Squadron. When he finally faced Starbuck, he reflected, his stomach might become the least of his worries. Truth be told, he was never very comfortable with the _Clavis_ technology. "The _Ravager_ is hailing her as well. I'm not up to specs about the rules of Cylon etiquette, but if Commander Dayton doesn't respond soon, they're going to get suspicious."

"Just when _was _Malus going to cover Cylon etiquette?"

"I think it follows Cylon Residential Economics 101."

The communicator crackled to life.

"_Harrower_-Patrol-Leader, Commander-Yugra-is-not-responding. Explain."

"Here we go," Rooke said, reaching forward to activate the vocal modulator once again. "Commander-Yugra-is-no-longer-in-command, _Ravager_. Commander-Malus-is-commander."

There was a slight hesitation. "This is Commander Syphax, Patrol Leader. Regardless, your Base Ship is not responding. Tell me, by what mechanism did it suddenly appear in this quadrant when it previously was not on our scanners?" the IL demanded.

"By-your-command, Commander. We-utilize-Beemeeup-technology-to-traverse-large-regions-of-time-and-space."

"Beemeeup technology?" the IL replied. "I am not familiar with it. Explain."

"I-am-a-Patrol-Leader-not-an-aerospace-engineer. Direct-inquiries-to-Commander-Malus, Commander."

"_Really_ . . ." the IL replied haughtily. "I will be discussing your impertinence with Commander Malus."

"Not-unless-communications-come-back-on-line, Commander."

"Hmm."

There was a momentary pause that made Rooke wonder if he'd been a little too flippant. Then again, in their experience centurions that had been out in deep space for over a centi-yahren did seem to acquire a few quirks in their programming. Hopefully, Syphax's crew was not the exception to that theory.

"Is it customary, Patrol Leader, that communications fail with Beemeeup technology?" Syphax asked.

Rooke glanced at Alecto and shrugged. "Negative."

"Well, have your patrol land on the _Harrower_ and investigate. Tell Commander Malus I am impatiently awaiting his communications."

"By-your-command, Commander."

xxxxx

"_What are you doing, Ama_?" John demanded, his voice coming from all around her. _"__Ama? Ama, answer me!__"_

Ama felt invincible. Amazing. More powerful than she could ever possibly have imagined. A divine energy filled every fibre of her being, permeating her existence so thoroughly that she felt self-indulgently sated. Almost. She had taken on the immortal entity that had claimed the Clavis, and through powers that she was only just _beginning_ to understand how to wield, she had overcome it. Devoured it, in a metaphysical sense. Was _this_ what her father had been speaking of? Perhaps back then in the relative infancy of her development she couldn't even comprehend what he'd intended when he promised her the universe . . .

"_Don't you see what he's doing, Ama_?" John cried. His form coalesced in front of her, "standing" in the void. "_He's using you! You're breaking rules and exceeding boundaries that you're not even aware of! He's coercing you to his side by appealing to your ego. By letting you exercise the power he offers! The Elders demand that you stop! Now! Do you not realize the danger_?"

"You exaggerate, John." She was certain of it.

"_Exaggerate? Would that were true! The last time Count Iblis wielded such power, it created a catastrophe on Earth that has been immortalized in their holy books and their culture, Ama_. _Even worlds and cultures far across the galaxy heard tales of it!_"

"Your Great Powers played a part in that as well. A punishment for the sins of man, I recall," Ama reminded him. Through the Oculus she'd seen the battle between good and evil that had heralded doom for the early Kobollian settlements on Earth and Mars, as well as early Earthmen. It had made an indelible impression, the utter carnage that had wiped out countless lives and sent Earthmen back to the Stone Age, leaving only a few pockets of survivors living in everlasting fear of the 'gods'. "Because of it your kind proclaimed you could no longer directly interfere with mankind, no matter their struggles."

"_My kind_," John repeated. "_Do not set yourself apart so quickly, Ama_. _You are one of us_."

"If you truly believe that, then stop me yourself, John, or have your Great Powers do so!" she dared him. Then she laughed at him, repelling his insistent but increasingly irritating presence with her mind.

"_Ama! No_! _He will destroy you. One way or the other, you will be destroyed_!" he protested as he faded from both her vision and her consciousness.

Leaving her to luxuriate in her newfound supremacy.

xxxxx

Meanwhile, in the Control Centre of the _Endeavour_, rolling over was an Olympic-class event that clearly not all the competitors were physically prepared for. Slowly, motor function was returning to the crew, but an overwhelming light-headedness and nausea was persisting, and there was nothing their recumbent and pallid med tech could do about it.

Dayton used a console to laboriously pull himself somewhat erect, clinging to it for support, as his head spun and mouth watered unpleasantly. He laboured to take in deep breaths, trying to clear his head, forcing himself to try and focus on the instruments. The readouts blurred and then gradually cleared to the point that he could _almost_ make heads or tails of them. He glanced over at Apollo, who had actually progressed to the point of standing unsupported and focussing on instruments. The colonel was a gold medal contender, to be sure.

"Well?" Dayton asked, relieved he was sounding less dysphasic. At this rate, he would advance to sounding like he was being strangled by days end.

"We're being hailed," Apollo replied as he propped Pierus up at his station, "by an _Abaddon_-class Base Ship. ID beacon identifies her as the _Ravager_." He dragged himself over to Sagaris' station, stepping over the cadet who was dry heaving noisily. "Holy frack! I think . . . "

"Thanks be to God that _somebody_ can think," Porter opined, propped up against a console, pale as a ghost. "What is it, Apollo?"

"I think we're in Earth's orbit!" Apollo exclaimed, double-checking the scanners. They were returning to life as well. On screen before them was a planet. Blue, with white clouds, and dark landmasses. It looked almost identical to Planet 'P'. On the tactical screen, the flashing red dot that denoted the enemy's position was plain to see. "So is the _Ravager_!"

Dayton let out a breath of disbelief. "How about that? The boys are back in town." He shook his head. "Over twenty million miles in . . .How in hell's half acre did Ama . . .?"

"Don't strain your brain too much on that, Mark. Just be glad that the spooky old broad's on our side," Ryan returned, grabbing a hold of Dayton's leg and using it to pull himself upward.

"Still, makes a mere mortal wonder, Paddy." Dayton grabbed his friend's arm before he lost his pants, his muscles quivering as he helped the other achieve a vertical position. A wave of fatigue rippled through his frame.

"Ta very much," Ryan said, leaning over the console beside him for support. "Uh, if the _Ravager_ wants to talk to us, she obviously thinks we're Cylon. Baker-Boy?" he said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Baker replied, dragging himself to a console. "Man, I feel like I just went nine rounds with a case of whiskey . . . and lost."

"That's whatcha get for buying the cheap stuff," Ryan returned.

"Now that I realize how awful he must feel, I'll never laugh at Starbuck again after we energize," Jolly sniffed, up on all fours.

"Sir, Phoenix Squadron is landing."

Apollo blew out a breath. "They must be running on fumes by now!"

"Commander!"

"Pierus?" Dayton asked.

Pierus straightened his askew head set with a shaky hand. "It's Commander Syphax of the _Ravager_, sir. He wants to speak with Commander Malus."

"Commander _Malus_? Now where did that come from?" Dayton asked.

"Flashback to Morlais," Baker snorted aloud.

"No, it must have been Rooke playing Cylon. He doesn't know about what happened to Malus," Dorado replied.

"Yeah, too bad old Bulb Head's in pieces in the science lab," Baker said.

"Can you rig something, Bob?" Dayton asked.

"For an IL? Not that quickly. But we could resurrect that gold Command Centurion in the lab and use the vocal modulator we integrated into the unicom," Baker replied, looking at Porter. "That's the nice thing about Cylons, no lip synching necessary."

"What was the name of it?" Porter asked.

"Yugra," Apollo replied.

"Right. Yugra."

"Good idea. Go get Yugra. And have Lieutenant Rooke report here on the double when he lands. I need to know what cock-and-bull story he told Syphax," Dayton ordered. "Every minute that we sit here not responding, we lose credibility with the _Ravager_."

"No reason we couldn't respond and just omit the vid-feed," Dorado suggested, checking their systems out further. Gradually, it was coming back on line. "After all, it looks like they've been trying to raise us for a few centons."

"Of course!" Dayton shook his head. "My brain must still be short-circuiting," he groaned. "Respond with a low-gain text-only message, Dorado. Say our comm system's high-gain transmitter array is malfunctioning, and we are effecting repairs."

"Right, sir. We . . ."

"Commander! The _Ravager_!" Apollo cried. "She's just fired her mega-pulsar at Earth!"


	50. Chapter Seventeen: Part Two

"_Where_?" Jess gasped, unable to believe it. A political capital or military base, maybe, but why on Earth . . . ?

The attack had begun and Earth's only decent chance at defence had failed. With nails biting into the palms of her hands, Jess watched the replay of the attack. A massive beam of intense blue light, as wide as the wingspan on a modern jetliner, erupted from the very centre of the underside of the Cylon Base Ship. It stabbed down through the atmosphere, slamming into the surface with multi-megatons of force and a blindingly brilliant flash. The Cylon pulsar had cut through the American Exoatmospheric Kill Vehicles deployed from their missiles as though they were a gaggle of geese.

And their goose was most definitely cooked.

"Las Vegas, Nevada," Orlov reported, filtering information through a Control Centre that was going ballistic since spotting a second Cylon Base Ship suddenly and inexplicably decelerating into Earth's orbit. It _had_ to be the _Endeavour_. It had filled them with hope, but hope was a fickle creature. Several minutes later and without warning, the first capital spaceship had unleashed its most powerful weapon on Earth, ripping into the planet and vaporizing Las Vegas. "Satellite imagery estimates a twenty mile blast radius."

"Twenty miles . . . what the hell's left?" Jess asked, her throat tight, as the imagery was brought up on a screen. From orbit, all they could see was a massive dark smudge where Vegas had once stood, the winds already beginning to spread the smoke out beyond the blast area. Then the satellite went dead. "Get it back!" ordered Jess.

But it was no use. The Base Ship had targeted the satellite, reducing it to dust. Several GPS satellites followed. Bit by bit, everything that could serve as a defensive purpose was being erased from the sky.

"Nothing," Surkov replied. They all stared at the last image of Vegas. A huge crater and massive fires were all they could see. If anyone had survived, it would have been a miracle. "War loves blood." He turned to his subordinate. "Get me General Roach. I would ask Captain Starbuck about the tactical plan of his commander. As yet, I am unimpressed."

"Yes, sir."

xxxxx

"Neither Lambda or Trevanian are responding," Xenia said, stating the obvious once again as the klaxon blared throughout the _Ravager_. "We need to get moving, Acastus. Now!"

"What in Hades went wrong?" Acastus asked, looking dumbfounded as he tried once again to raise his fellow squadron mates. He'd become almost obsessive about it, expectantly waiting for Trevanian or Lambda to respond in some jocular manner that they had destroyed any opposition and were preparing to set their charges and head for the launch bay, ala Starbuck.

"They must have been caught," Xenia surmised, her stomach flip-flopping at the idea and the bile creeping up her throat to strangle her. She forced it back down. "We'd better get going. Knocking out one mega-pulsar is better than not knocking out _any_. In for a quantum, in for a cubit."

"But we need to go find out what happened . . . see if we can _help_ . . ." Acastus stuttered, his handsome young features contorting in disbelief and indecision. "We can't just _leave_ them . . ."

"We _need_ to complete our mission, Acastus," Xenia reminded him, looking up the ventilation shaft where they had to set their charges. At least the Cylons were unlikely to discover them in here. Suddenly this covert mission had ceased to be fun for her fellow warriors. Probability dictated that Lambda, Trevanian, Teles and Ligea were either prisoners of the Cylons or dead. If she wasn't so terrified herself, she might have taken a moment to reflect on the absolute confidence of youth and how effectively the Colonial military had utilized it over the millennia in situations like this. Throw yourself into the jaws of death while you were being all that you could be, fully expecting to come back alive. Heroes like Starbuck, Apollo and the legendary Cain had so easily made the impossible seem achievable. However, it was clear to her that that this group of young warriors were lacking that charmed existence with which these demigods in Colonial culture had been gifted. "We have to blow the upper pulsar. _Now_. If the others get interrogated, assuming they're even alive, they'll probably give us away."

"They would _never_ . . ." Acastus denied hotly, his head whipping indignantly in her direction as he flushed with anger.

"Shut the frack up, Acastus. You've never been tortured. You don't know how you or anyone else would react to a Cylon brain probe. You probably don't want to remember, but even Starbuck cracked when he was captured."

"But he survived," Acastus said quietly.

"Yes, he did. But _he's_ Starbuck. God gave him a little something extra to inspire the rest of us, to make sure we finish what we started, if only so he's proud of us when he says a few words at our memorial service. So if you want to make our strike captain proud, move your astrum, Ensign."

Acastus drew a deep breath, gathering his tattered resolve around him. "You're more than just an archivist, Xenia. What did you do _before_ the Destruction?"

She ducked her head, refusing to let her memories drag her back into the terror that she had once lived and relived, over and over. Those records didn't even exist anymore. Except in the scarred recesses of her mind. "When I was a little older than you, I was a Colonial Warrior. A lieutenant on the_Columbia_."

He didn't say anything, waiting for her to continue.

"I was medically discharged about seven yahrens before the Holocaust."

"For what?" he asked hesitantly, sounding so achingly young.

"Combat Stress Reaction."

He sucked in a breath.

"It was a long time ago, Acastus." She took a shuddering breath, nodding upwards at the shaft. "Now move your astrum, Ensign."

"Yes, ma'am."

xxxxx

"You vowed we would negotiate. You offered peace!" Asar accused Lucifer, his voice trembling in fury as the thought of the complete destruction of Las Vegas and its millions of victims branded itself for all of eternity on his conscience.

"Yes, I did, but I _lied_," the IL replied, its lights twinkling in a warped satisfaction. "If it appeases you at all, Samael Asar, there was nothing you could have done to prevent this. It was a foregone conclusion that you would so naively fall into the role of traitor, as others have done before you. Humans, by nature, are gullible creatures, easily rendered credulous. Power is by and large a more influential tool than altruism with your kind." He made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh. "You _actually_ took the word of a machine over one of your own. I still find that preposterous, no matter how many times I have seen it." He paused, reflecting on that. "Yours is an inferior race, meant to be overcome by my own. It was inevitable."

"You too will be destroyed!" Asar screamed, motioning for the attending UN guards to take the IL into custody.

"It matters not. The day still belongs to my Imperious Leader and to Cylon," Lucifer replied smugly, straightening up arrogantly, in an almost human fashion. He took a step closer to Asar. His voice went icy cold. "The Cylon Alliance shall rule the universe, its domination written across the stars in the blood of your pathetic race."

"Mister Secretary General!" said a functionary. Asar looked at him. "According to orbital track, the Base Ship will be over Mexico City in three minutes."

It was the most populated city in North America as well as the site of Teotihaucan, containing some of the largest pyramidal structures from the pre-Columbian period.

"Guards!" screamed the U.N. Secretary General, pointing at the IL Cylon. "Take him away!"

xxxxx

_Behold the Wrath of God! The Apocalypse is Here!_

The words seemed to leap off of the placard, the woman holding it out of character in her neat clothes, a small child standing at her side at the roadside. It passed by in a blur through the darkened windows as they drove by Federal Hall, Lauren securely in the back of the car between two large goons. The End of the World. Armageddon. End Time. The violent destruction of the world and the end of life as they knew it. The Cylons had reached out and turned one of the most modern, vibrant cities on Earth to burning slag. How long would it be before New York was targeted?

"Wouldn't you rather be at home with your families?" Lauren asked, while the men in suits listened to reports of the attack on Las Vegas. It had been wiped off the map. All communications with the area had ceased; there was no word about any possible survivors. Meanwhile, what was left of Samael Asar's body had been found in a bloody, crumpled heap in front of the UN. He'd jumped from the rooftop.

"Shut up!" an agent snarled from the front seat. A cold, quiet, terrifying sort of snarl.

"She has a point," said the one beside her.

The man in the front turned, a gun in his hand. It was too quick to even see it coming. At the muted _thud_ of a silenced weapon, she instinctively closed her eyes and winced, as the warm splash of blood and tissue covered her unsuspecting form. The man beside her slumped over, dead.

"Anybody else think she has a point?" the killer asked, looking around the sedan. "No? Good."

Humanity. That largely predictable race of semi-intelligent beings, which maintained their primitive instincts, indeed prided themselves on them, no matter how many millennia of "development" had passed. Theirs was a race with a passion and an almost animal cruelty that Iblis quite simply found irresistible as he observed them, subtly influencing them when the opportunity arose, and, as often as not, he _made_ that opportunity. Within each and every one of them was a hidden recess that, when properly provoked, declared their complicity in selfishness, greed, lust, hate, avarice, power mongering, torture, bloodshed, and even murder. A barbarity and viciousness no less robust than his own. Someone had once wisely said that there was no such thing as an "inhuman act", no matter how cruel, vile, or depraved it might be, simply because there was always somewhere a human being willing—if not eager—to commit it.

Quite simply put, they were _interesting_.

"Father?"

Iblis smiled as he took pride in her evolution. Ama was coming along nicely. "Yes, daughter mine."

xxxxx

"I'm having trouble keeping up with your mood swings, General," Starbuck choked out from his headlock, his body pressed up against an office wall, his arm twisted painfully behind his back, and another three armed American officers behind him enjoying the show. It seemed ironic that they'd just been celebrating not only his successful simulator run on the F-35, the surprising return of his Colonial combat boots from a watery grave, and also the arrival of the _Endeavour_. Five centons later everything had changed. The city of Las Vegas, a locality devoted to gaming chanceries, had been completely destroyed, Earth's usual defences rendered useless by the Cylon mega-pulsar. This seemingly only centons after Mexico City had been laid to waste. A moment later he'd been hauled in here by Roach, fury and condemnation burning in the general's eyes. Apparently, all of this was _his_ fault. "You're getting scarier than the matron at the orphanage when she went through the Change of Life . . ."

"You _bastard_!" Roach hissed in Starbuck's ear.

The general eased off on the pressure for a moment, only to slam him into the wall again. Then he drove his knee into the younger man's kidney. Starbuck arched his back in agony, feeling his knees give out. If it hadn't been for the general forcibly holding him up, he'd have been on the floor. In retrospect, all he could do at this point was thank the nine Lords that Lu had already launched . . .

"They did _nothing_!" Roach continued, his voice raw with emotion as he maintained a superhuman grip on the warrior. "The _Endeavour_ just _sat_ there letting the Cylons _murder_ our people!"

Starbuck had a feeling that the Earthman wanted to return the favour, starting with him. A sudden cold dread swept over him. "Then there has to be . . . a . . . a good _reason_ for it!" he rasped between clenched teeth. "They wouldn't just sit there unless they had no choice."

"_What_ reason?" Roach demanded, almost hysterically. "What _possible_ reason could there be?" He slammed Starbuck into the wall again.

Roach wanted him dead. At first Starbuck had thought the man was just being his usual volatile self, but now it occurred to him that something else was going on here. Roach really thought Starbuck had set them up. That he had helped orchestrate a Cylon attack and was actually in league with Lucifer!. Roach was on the edge, driven there by the destruction of Las Vegas. Starbuck couldn't help but think of when the officer had killed those men at the UN without even offering them a chance to surrender, and that had been when he'd been in complete control. Now the opposite was true. If Starbuck had any chance at all of surviving this, he'd have to find an opening soon . . . after all, if Roach pounded him into the frackin' wall a few more times, he reckoned there'd be an opening in_it_ . . .

"Let him go, Roach," came a low sneer from across the room. "Now!"

"Great idea," Starbuck gasped, his face becoming one with the plaster as the burning pain in his back began to ease.

Dickins was standing in the open doorway, Ryan and Hummer flanking him. All three men were armed, which possibly didn't bode well for the officers they'd been left with. Ryan kicked the door shut behind him as the other officers in the room pulled their own weapons.

"Looks like we have ourselves a little Mexican standoff, General," Dickins said. "You shoot, we shoot."

"This isn't your fight, Captain Dickins. Just walk away right now and we'll forget this ever happened," Roach promised the old astronaut, tightening his grip around Starbuck's throat.

"That's where you're _wrong._ I owe Starbuck my life, General. We all do. If you're against _him_, you're against _me_."

"What about allegiance to your _country_?" Roach demanded. "Your world?"

"My country is sorta pissing me off about now," Dickins replied grimly. "And the way I see it, my world isn't exactly at its best, either. I thought we had a_clear_ understanding about who the good guys were, General. Don't go psychotic on our boy just yet. Starbuck's right. There has to be a damn good reason that Dayton let the Cylons get in the first strike. Mark Dayton is like a brother to me. Closer, even. One thing I know without a doubt is that if he's still breathing, he'll come through for us. Just give him a chance and don't burn your bridges—or our strike captain—in the meantime." Dickins took a step closer, drawing a bead on the general's forehead from across the room. "Now . . . Let. Him. Go."

Starbuck could feel the tension and hostility in the general. With a rasping squeal he sucked in another breath through the building pressure against his windpipe. His chest was beginning to ache with an all-consuming need to draw a deep satisfying gulp of air into his lungs. Dying here on Earth all because of a misunderstanding really wasn't part of his plan. Then again, his plans had a way of veering off on some bizarre path that he hadn't foreseen . . .

"My wife and daughters . . ." Roach's voice cracked.

Dickins let out a short breath, realization erasing the deadly intent on his own features as he lowered his weapon. "In Vegas?"

Roach nodded sharply, drawing a ragged breath as he stood there shaking in indecision. "It was so quick . . . no time to warn them . . . even _talk_ to them . . ."

Dickins nodded sympathetically, letting a moment of silence pass. "The _Cylons_ are responsible for their deaths, General, not Starbuck. He's on your side. I know you want revenge, but you're barking up the wrong damn tree."

There was a long moment of silence before Roach swallowed convulsively. He ground his teeth together, struggling to maintain some semblance of control. Slowly, he loosened his grip on Starbuck, letting the Colonial Warrior slide down the wall to the floor on his knees. Starbuck slumped forward taking deep gasping breaths, one hand to his throat, his eyes shut tightly, his head resting against the wall. Roach shook his head numbly, still trying to decide if he'd been betrayed or if there was some other possible explanation. He finally turned.

"If you're wrong, Dickins," Roach said, clinging to his tenuous control over his grief and anger, "you'll be on the firing line beside your young friend here."

An officer burst into the room.

"General! The Cylon ship! It's launching its fighters!" the young woman announced.

"Frack . . ." muttered Starbuck, using the wall for support as he started to climb to his feet.

"If I'm wrong, General," Dickins replied, crossing to the Colonial Warrior and helping him up, "chances are we'll all be vaporized before you have a chance to organize that firing squad."

xxxxx

Dayton felt a cold fury burning deep within him as he looked at the scans of the scarred remains of an area that had once been vibrant with human life, many of them on vacation, indulging in some of the best _and_worst that western culture had to offer. Was that why the Cylons had chosen it? Because it symbolized a way of life so alien and repugnant to them? Or did Iblis have something to do with their choice of target? Exactly whose buttons was the Count of Creep pushing now?

"Commander, incoming encoded message from Wraith Two."

"Wraith Two?" Dayton echoed. Finally it was good news. "Starbuck?"

"No, sir. Ensign Luana. She's definitely in Wraith Two though, sir. But the message, according to the transmission, is from Captain Starbuck."

"Well?" Dayton asked briskly, even as the news that both Starbuck and Lu were alive eased his mind.

"Uh . . . well . . ." Pierus actually blushed, swallowing hard as he regarded the decoded message in front of him. He cleared his throat.

"Cadet!" Dayton barked.

"Captain Starbuck wishes to know what we're . . . well, uh . . . waiting for."

"Yeah, I'll just _bet_ that's what he said." Ryan snorted, leaning over the cadet's shoulder, raising his eyebrows in amusement. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Whew, strong words coming from a lowly strike captain. I'm surprised the console didn't catch on fire with _this_ language, eh Pierus?" He glanced at Dayton. "Hey, at least he's okay, and he's obviously met up with Lu."

"Yeah. Tell Ensign Luana to haul ass and get herself aboard," Dayton replied, forgiving the young Colonial officer his breach in protocol. Starbuck had been holding down the fort for far longer than any of them had expected. "Status?" he asked, trying to stay focussed instead of letting the guilt and doubt that was nipping at his conscience unnerve him, while he and the crew recovered physically from the celestial herky-jerky that Ama had just put them through.

"Life support fully operational. Navigation back on line. Weaponry at eighty percent, Commander," Dorado reported. "Defensive batteries coming back on-line. Shields at sixty percent. Engineering reports galley and rec areas still on emergency power cells."

"Good. Targeting scanners?"

"Diagnostics in progress. Estimate four centons to fully operational status."

"What about the Clavis?"

"Nominal, Commander," Coxcoxtli replied. "Like before we left for Morlais. No energy fluctuations whatsoever."

"Let's hope it stays that way. Colonel?"

"Phoenix squadron is refuelling," Apollo reported. "Triton Squadron is standing by."

"Apollo, report to the launch bay," Dayton ordered. "Forget the pre-flights, just kick the tires and light the fires!"

"Yes, sir!" the young colonel replied, leaving the Control Centre at a run, Jolly on his heels.

"I'm going too, Mark!" Baker declared, heading towards the corridor. "If for any reason they need someone to speak English . . ."

"Yeah, go!" Dayton nodded.

"Weaponry at ninety percent, Commander," Dorado updated him. "All defensive and navigational screens now report operational."

"Slow. Too goddamned slow!"

"That's part of the reason these ships were pulled from service," said Pierus. The commander glared at him. Now was not the time for a bloody history lesson!

Rooke had been debriefed; the lieutenant operating under their covert modus operandi, setting the stage for another Cylon sting that would go down in Colonial history. However, after sitting helplessly by while the Cylons started battering his home world, Dayton wasn't feeling very subtle. He could feel the eyes of his crew upon him as they watched. Scans indicated the enemy ship's main weapons were charging up once more. She was selecting a new target within the arc of her weapon's lock. Raiders were launching from all bays on a heading to the planet. The aptly named _Ravager_ was preparing for its next strike on Earth, ignoring their sister ship's insistent hails.

"Son of a bitch, screw this covert crap," Dayton sneered. He punched the ship's intercraft system and announced: "General quarters, general quarters. All hands to battle stations!" The klaxon began to scream throughout the vessel. "This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill! Battle stations!"


	51. Chapter Eighteen: Part One

Chapter Eighteen

"Range to _Ravager_?" Dayton demanded.

"Two hundred and twenty-nine kilometrons, Commander," Sagaris replied, "and closing."

"Get me a firing solution, Sagaris. Now."

"Yes, sir."

"Weaponry one hundred percent, Commander," Dorado reported. "All systems are back on line."

"Ready all forward lasers," Dayton ordered. "Load all torpedo tubes."

"Aye, sir."

"Colonel Apollo reports Triton and Phoenix squadrons ready to launch, sir."

Dayton turned. "Didn't I say . . .?"

"Kick the tires and light the fires. Yes, sir." The cadet spoke into her headset. "Triton Squadron, launch when ready. Phoenix Squadron, launch when ready."

"Commander, do you want them to engage the _Ravager_ or pursue the Raiders attacking Earth?" Dorado asked.

"The Raiders. The _Ravager_ is ours."

"But those cadets aboard the _Ravager_, Commander . . ."

"Probably dead, Dorado."

"But if they're not . . ."

"Ensign Luana requesting permission to join Phoenix Squadron, Commander," Pierus reported.

"Tell her . . ."

"Commander!" Dorado interrupted.

Dayton paused, looking at the other. "Captain?"

"I have an idea, sir"

xxxxx

"Target-acquired," the centurion reported.

"Excellent. Fire as we come dead centre, Centurion."

"By-your-command."

They had changed position, targeting another location where ancient pyramids dotted the landscape. If correlating scans were correct, this city was the most populated on the continent.

"Prepare to fire lower mega-pulsar," Syphax ordered, turning to regard his four human prisoners, all of them stubbornly silent about how they managed to be flying Raiders that had been retrofitted with Colonial technology. It was perplexing, to say the least, that they had infiltrated his Base Ship by pretending to be Cylon. Meanwhile, Syphax gathered, the _Harrower_ was out there pretending to do the same. Curiously, all it had done so far was hail them repeatedly. He was also unfamiliar with technology that could make it suddenly arrive here. So many perplexing questions unanswered. His linear comprehension sought explanations. "We have ways of making you talk."

"Do your worst, Cylon," Ensign Trevanian said scornfully.

"Instead, I shall do my best. Take them to the Brig. Use the brain probe," Syphax ordered, watching the human vermin leave. After being in their presence, he felt the sudden need for a reconditioning session and a change of robe.

"Raiders-approaching-striking-distance-on-Earth, Commander," a centurion reported.

"Good. Emit electromagnetic pulses, Centurion. That should take care of their paltry missiles. They will rue the day they thought they could triumph against the Cylon Alliance. Fire mega-pulsar."

"Firing."

xxxxx

They were partially blind, their defensive satellite grid neutralized by Cylon fire or the current electromagnetic pulses the Base Ship was emitting towards Earth. Satellite after satellite either exploded into scrap or had its guts burned out, as the _Ravager_stripped them of every orbital defence within her sights. Even Airborne Early Warning and Control aircraft would be having problems picking up hostiles on their radar under the onslaught of the magnetic fields. Surface-to-air missiles were standing by, but with the Cylon EMPs turning their guidance systems into useless garbage, it seemed the tables had turned on the Earthers once again. With the next attack wave, Earth fighters would engage Cylon Raiders, determining which craft was superior in an atmospheric fight. Meanwhile, as far as she could tell without the tactical eyes of satellite technology, the Colonials hadn't done much to defend Earth as Starbuck had promised.

Jess gritted her teeth together, wondering if she'd been made a fool of. Was her father truly up there on that Base Ship, or had it all been lies? But what possibly could be Starbuck's motivation? He had seemed so sincere. She wanted to believe him . . . she _needed_ to believe him. She looked over at Surkov searchingly.

"At this rate it will be every country for themselves_, lapochka_. From our last reports, it appears they will start with North America," Surkov told her gently, uncharacteristically using his nickname for her in the presence of others. Obviously, he thought they were all about to die . . . .

"I know," Jess replied. Mexico City, Las Vegas, New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Toronto . . . The worst part was standing there impotently, feeling useless. She looked at Orlov. "We need some eyes up there, Sergei."

He nodded in complete agreement. "What are you thinking?"

"The _Venture_ and the _Quest_." The two Guardian class space shuttles were idly sitting on the tarmac at the Baikonur Space Centre. "We still have _some_communication satellites in place. We can get above the electromagnetic garbage and triangulate the signals, getting back in touch with NORAD. If push comes to shove, we can even use the space shuttles to liase with the _Endeavour_."

"But they have no defences!" Orlov argued. "It will be like . . . uh, shooting turkeys in water-cooler if they find you, how you Americans say."

"I'm well aware of that, Sergei," she replied, trying not to smile at the mangled idioms. "That's why I'm going myself and asking for volunteers for this mission. You'll be in charge in my stead."

"I volunteer," Carter said, stepping forward from the background. The _Venture_ pilot had been quietly monitoring the situation. "Seems to me we're running out of options and I for one would rather be up there trying something, than down here waiting to get vaporized. And I'm not alone in that. In fact," he paused dramatically, "I believe _Quest_ and _Venture_ are on the tarmac and ready for countdown."

"Carter, I think I love you." Dayton grinned broadly.

"I'll take that over a raise any day of the week, Director," Carter replied.

"Very good." Surkov nodded his approval at the astronaut before turning a grim face on the WASA director. "But Jessica . . ."

"This is _my_ show, Alexei. Remember that," she replied evenly. "Step on my toes one more time and I'll bloody well go bear hunting!"

The colonel-general grunted, a faint smile on his stern features. "Then, as you say, good luck."

"The _Unity_ is still at Kennedy Air Force Base along with most of the crew," Orlov reminded them

"Taylor can fly her. He's logged almost as many hours as Grae Ryan," Jess replied. "But we need to get word to them . . ."

"Which we can do just as soon as we reach low-Earth orbit," Carter replied.

"Then let's get suited up."

"If you need any help, Director . . ."

"_Carter_."

xxxxx

On July 4rth, 2055, the dawn air was so thick with electromagnetic impulses that Earth's first line of defence—her surface-to-air missiles—had been neutralized. Now it was up to the squadrons of F-35s near New York, Los Angeles and Chicago to defend the United States against the next wave of Cylons. Hades Hole, more like all of North America. The Canadian and Mexican Air Forces were scrambling as well, but they were smaller, somewhat less advanced in the Mexican's case, and further away. The problem was that with all the interference, Starbuck was getting a bad feeling about how well this Earth equivalent of a Colonial attack computer was going to work.

He pressed his finger against the touch-screen display. At this point he should have been viewing a much clearer, close up image of the Cylons that were out ahead of them. It wasn't happening. As much as the Multi-Mission Active Electronically Scanned Array and Electro-Optical Targeting were supposed to be the latest and greatest in long-range and visual targeting technology on Earth, it was appearing they would be totally useless for locking on Cylons in this swamp of electro-magnetic soup.

"Attention Eighty-Seventh Air Base Wing, this is Captain Starbuck. My electronic targeting looks more likely to lock on the Statue of Liberty than a Cylon in all this interference."

"Affirmative, Starbuck," replied Grae Ryan, also situating himself into an F-35 through his previous experience in the Canadian Air Force. "I'm getting the same. Complete sludge."

"That's what I thought." Starbuck nodded. "Looks like we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, boys and girls. Switch to manual targeting."

"Er . . . _manual_ targeting, sir?" came a startled reply through his helmet from his wingman. "You mean as opposed to _visual_ targeting?"

"You mean visually with an Electro-Optical Targeting System, Stossel?" Starbuck paused, getting a sinking feeling. "Yes, it's different. You, uh . . . you _do _have manual targeting in these birds, don't you?" Admittedly, he had just _assumed_ . . .

"As a last resort, Captain, but . . . "

"But _what_?" Starbuck asked.

"With most nations on Earth using Joint Strike Fighters now, the majority of our air combat is done through long-range targeting, miles before we even make visual contact. We don't get as much experience at the short-range stuff," Stossel admitted, "and we never need to use manual targeting in combat. It's a bit of a lost art."

"But you've practiced it?" Starbuck asked. _Please God, let him tell me they've practiced it!_

"In simulated combat. Yes."

"That's good enough for me." Starbuck smiled grimly, while shaking his head. _Oh Lords of Kobol!_ "Listen up. One of the advantages we have over the Cylons is our instinct, not to mention our hand-eye coordination. We can adapt better to atypical situations. Sagan's sake, some of us thrive on them. Cylons ritualistically use an attack computer and have trouble thinking outside their group. Anything unfamiliar causes them to automatically refer to their data banks for analogues and possible solutions. Creativity and the unexpected belong to _us_. Also, atmospherically, they're going to be slower and less manoeuvrable than we are. The only unknown at this point is how effective our cannon will be against them. What I do know is that Colonel Katko of the Russian Air Force shot one down over Kazakhstan flying her PAK-FA. If our armaments are comparable. . ."

"They're better, Captain," Stossel replied.

"Long a bone of contention," Grae Ryan inserted.

"Still, good to know, and we appreciate the advice, Captain," Stossel continued. "Hey, if this works I'll treat you to the new _Colonial_ _Capitano_ at _Starbucks_when we get back."

Starbuck groaned quietly at the reference as a collective titter of laughter filled the frequency. Lucky him; a whole new generation of Starbucks jokes was about to come his way.

xxxxx

Finally, the Colonial Covert Operations Ship was ready to do something other than just sit there in orbit, looking repulsive. And it was about bloody time.

"Fire!" ordered Dayton from the Control Centre of the _Endeavour_as a red beam of light shot towards the enemy ship, dead centre.

A blink of an eye later, real-time telemetry showed debris exploding from a point near the top of the enemy Base Ship, the eerie red glow of destruction replacing the decks that used to house the powerful mega-pulsar. A few seconds later, a secondary explosion erupted and more debris belched into space as hull plating peeled back, flying violently away from the _Ravager_.

"_Nice_ shooting!" Baker exclaimed as the astounded crew cheered.

"Somehow, I don't think that was us," Dayton replied, stroking his stubbly chin thoughtfully. By the looks of it several decks were destroyed, mangled pieces of debris floating into space. Massive electrical sparking and flailing junk could clearly be seen at hi-mag, leaving a trail behind as the _Ravager_'s orbital momentum carried her forward.

"The cadets?" Ryan asked. "Maybe they did it."

Dayton nodded. "Looks like a couple of them got lucky, Paddy."

"Luck _does_ seem to be back on our side," Coxcoxtli ventured. "Lords of Kobol be praised."

"Yeah. The trouble is that her ugly sister is never far away."

"Commander!" shouted Sagaris. "Detecting target lock! Incoming fire!"

xxxxx

They had barely escaped being sealed in one of the compartments that had automatically shut when the mega-pulsar had exploded. Still, a narrow escape, as well as the triumph of destroying the most powerful weapon known to Cylon was heady stuff, even to a battle-scarred medically discharged Colonial Warrior recreating herself as an unassuming cadet this time around.

The Base Ship shuddered as further explosions rocked her and klaxons blared. As Acastus suddenly reached out and steadied her, Xenia wasn't sure if it was repercussions of the destroyed pulsar weapon or if it was the Colonial capital ship finally battering the Cylons. Either way, they were running out of time.

"We have to find the others," Acastus reminded her earnestly. "We _don't_leave our squadron mates behind."

Xenia sucked in a breath. The truth was she was sorely tempted to do just that. They had already given their commander the tactical advantage. The_Ravager_ was hurt and down one of her main batteries. At this point, if they made it out alive, they'd be decorated for their heroic efforts. And if they didn't . . . well, death had a finality to it that need not be dwelt on.

"Hey," Acastus said, suddenly standing right in front of her and taking her by the shoulders. As always, there was an enthusiasm about him that she had left behind yahrens before. "Didn't Starbuck tell us that if we're ever caught in a corner that we should go out fighting? Hmm? Didn't he?"

"Yeah, he did," she replied dourly, trying to reconcile herself to the fact that she would probably die here. Still, Acastus was right. In her heart she knew it. They had to at least _try_to rescue the others. "Remind me to smack him the next time we see him. Hmm? Would ya?"

"You don't like him much, do you?" He looked at her in bemusement.

She shrugged. "Let's just say I have a better memory than he does."

"You've lost me."

"That's just as well," she replied. "It's ancient history. I don't want to talk about it."

They moved down the so-far empty corridor, coming to a ladderwell. Looking down it, they saw several centurions scrambling back and forth. They were either damage control parties or gunners on the way to their action stations. Either way, the young warriors needed to foul things up a bit . . .

"Acastus?" asked Xenia, as he withdrew a solenite charge from his satchel.

"Just helping out our shipmates," he said with a grin, setting it. Then, he dumped it down the ladderwell.

"Halt!" came a voice. They turned . . .

And the whole bulkhead blossomed into an orange fireball.

xxxxx

It was almost _too_ easy, and that was coming from a guy who didn't like to work too hard. For whatever reason, the EMPs that the _Ravager_ had been emitting abruptly stopped before Earth and Cylon forces engaged. A moment later, an indication of a potential target popped up on the F-35s multifunction display in Starbuck's bird. He altered course, flying towards the area of interest, pressing his finger against the touch-screen display as he'd been taught. This time, unlike the other, a magnified image of a Raider appeared. He pressed his screen again, and both target designation and weapons status imagery appeared on the visor of his helmet-mounted display. It was just like the war book in his Viper! However, what happened next was pure magic. Automatically, the F-35 began tracking the target, the crosshairs in the visor locking on to the Raider. While firing missiles, his position in relation to his target wasn't crucial, as it was in a Colonial or Cylon fighters. He switched from his heads-down to heads-up display in his visor, marvelling at the split imagery. Checking range, closure and velocity of the oncoming Raider, he fired his missile, watching as it followed a laser beam to its destination. Moments later, he checked his multifunction display again to verify that the medium-range target had been destroyed.

Then he did it twice more. Lords' sake, it _was_ idiot proof!

"_Yeehaw_!"

"There's so many of them!" Stossel cried.

"Only three squadrons, all told. We destroyed the other one over Kazakhstan," Starbuck replied. But the kid had a point. Two of the _Ravager_'s three squadrons seemed to be here! Of all the possible targets to pick over Earth, it didn't make sense. Why concentrate their forces . . .?

He checked his sensors again, verifying that even more Raiders had joined the attack formation. All around him Raider lasers and Lightning missiles were cutting pathways of death and destruction through the sky. Fortunately, they'd engaged the enemy forces over the Atlantic Ocean, so at least anything that fell prey to gravity would hopefully land in the drink rather than in the heart of New York City, unless Cylons broke through their task force. Yeah, he'd been in this position more than once in his all too brief but illustrious career, outnumbered and outgunned; he was still alive to tell the slightly embellished tales.

"Stossel, just keep asking yourself, 'Self, am I still alive?' If the answer is 'yes', then keep fighting," Ryan offered.

"Stossel, break . . ." Starbuck started to warn him.

With the sudden flash of a laser, Stossel's bird exploded. Starbuck rolled to his left as his radar-warning receiver simultaneously alarmed, the tone telling him someone was painting his bird. Yeah, there was a Cylon on his tail! His ship automatically fired off chaff and flares, creating false radar and tracking signature to throw the enemy off his trail. Not accustomed to these kinds of countermeasures, the Cylons would be looking for explanations as to what the frack was happening.

Starbuck rolled, starting a hard turn into the Cylon's flight path at maximum G. He glanced at his threat indicator, seeing his strategy was working, as he felt his body reacting to the physical duress of violent high-G manoeuvring. No doubt that Dr. Paye would have something to say, if he ever found out . . . not that Starbuck planned on telling him, actually. Regardless, unable to match the turn radius, the less manoeuvrable Cylon was moving out in front of him, falling prey to the superior basic fighter manoeuvres of the Colonial Warrior. Once again Starbuck activated his targeting systems. Moments later, his fourth and last missile was away and his computer confirmed the kill hundreds of metrons away.

All the same, it kinda made a simple guy like Starbuck miss things blowing up in an impressive, _noisy_, fiery ball of destruction. After all, these days there was no "up close and personal" _boom_ . . .

"Too bad you're not here, Boomer," he murmured to himself in Colonial Standard, adroitly manoeuvring his fighter to intercept a Raider on someone else's tail. Down a wingman he'd known for all of a centar, about now he'd like to have an old buddy watching his back the way Boomer used to instead of engaging in a frenzied free-for-all. _Hey, one Hades of a time to get nostalgic, Bucko . . ._

A blue pencil of light seared across the sky, buttoning the Raider dead centre. It exploded spectacularly, then his headset crackled . . .

"If he was, Boomer would tell you to stop yammering on this frequency and that he was at least one Cylon ahead of you in kills!" a jubilant and familiar voice announced.

"And he'd be _lying_ . . . _Apollo_?" Starbuck asked, checking his sensors once again. The additional Raiders on his radar weren't Cylon! They were Hybrids! "Lords, buddy, am I ever glad to hear your voice!"

"Yours too, Starbuck," Apollo returned, an emotional timbre to the tone that Starbuck couldn't quite place. "More than you know, buddy."

"The _Endeavour_ . . .?" Starbuck started to ask.

"Engaging the _Ravager_," Apollo replied. "Commander Dayton sent us down to help out."

"About time. So he got my message?"

"He did, although I believe Pierus gave him a sterilized version of the original, Bucko."

"And Lu's alright?"

"She was landing on the _Endeavour_ when I was taking off."

Starbuck nodded in relief, checking his radar again. _Oh oh_ . . ."Of course, this does raise a slight problem, Apollo . . ."

"What's that?"

"On my sensors, you read as Cylon. Just now I have a whole planet of Earth fighters picking you up on a pre-programmed target detection system that will boggle your mind and fry your astrum."

"_Frack_." Apollo only paused a moment. "Starbuck, I just activated our auto tracking beacon. Can you read it?"

He checked his equipment once again, smiling at his friend's quick thinking. There it was! _Lords_, but it was good to have Apollo back with him! "Got ya, buddy!"

Quickly, both warriors relayed the critical information to both of their squadrons. Suddenly, something burst outside Starbuck's canopy. He flinched as pieces of a Raider flew past him. It was getting dangerous out here!

"Three of them broke through!" an anxious voice announced over the unicom. "They're heading for New York City!"

Starbuck broke right, adjusting his course to intercept. On his sensors, he could see his fellow Earth pilots responding to the situation with a skill and professionalism that made him proud to be among them. Microns later their missiles were in pursuit. He reduced throttle, realizing the targeting killers could do the job far better than his cannons. It was only a matter of time now . . .

His sensors suddenly fizzled out, as a slough of electromagnetic pulses began anew. As before, the screens turned to mud. "Frack!" he cursed.

The entire squadron was back to resorting to manual targeting and using their cannons. Not only were there three Cylon Raiders heading for the most populous city centre in the United States, but suddenly there were also three rogue missiles, that had most probably lost their guidance systems, screaming across the sky. Could things actually get any worse?

Full throttle, he raced in their direction. He was coming up below them from the rear, and they were already preoccupied taking evasive manoeuvres from an attack on their other side. An F-35 opened fire and its target rolled, breaking left . . . straight towards him.

The Cylon screamed across his canopy and he banked hard to follow. He fired, idly noting there was no tone on the frequency that would ID a Hybrid. It felt weird, the vibration from something as archaic as. . . _bullets_spewing from his ship. Several of his rounds seemed to bounce off the Cylon's hull, his worst nightmare coming true regarding his secondary weapons. Then he smiled, as one flew right into the Raider's port thruster. The engine flashed, then erupted in a waft of smoke and light as the cowling blew off. The Cylon began to wobble badly. She was trailing smoke and flame, and loosing speed fast. Starbuck closed in for the kill, his finger pausing as he caught the glint of what could be a missile. It was too damn close to his next kill!

He slammed the stick forward.

The Cylon's ship exploded violently, ripping it to shreds. Pieces of wreckage from the destroyed Cylon flew straight at him. He tried to roll, but his ship shuddered as bits of the enemy craft ripped into his engine. His right wing exploded, belching flame and debris. Lights and alarms went off across his panels as his ship screamed towards the ocean.

"Starbuck!" Ryan yelled in his ear. "_Eject_!"


	52. Chapter Eighteen: Part Two

"Revel in the power, Ama. Feel it! Feel it coursing through you," Iblis said, his words seeming to echo through the ages, reverberating through the very corridors of time. "Together, we will be invincible. _This_ is your destiny, daughter, you have only to seize it!" He reached out his hand to her. The aura around him glowed with such energy, such barely harnessed power, that no mortal could have looked upon it.

Ama laughed, filled to capacity with the headiest feeling of pleasure and contentment she had ever known. Her grey eyes twinkled with devilry as she pirouetted gracefully, like a young girl, tossing the Oculus high above her like a plaything. "They're all just peons, really, compared to us, Father. They really are, aren't they?" She stopped, and looked at Iblis, her expression like a child, uncovering some new wonder. "Why do we even bother with them? Are you so bored that they seem interesting to you?" She laughed, and it tinkled enchantingly like the spilling of water over silver. "Come, take me on a _real_ adventure, Father! Teach me _all_ that you know, the places that you have been, show me all that you've born witness to. There is so much I have yet to see . . ."

Iblis smiled in satisfaction as she took his hand.

He had her!

xxxxx

Running at full ECM, Luana throttled back as she came in from behind the _Ravager_, where there were far fewer signs of battle damage. On her wide course around the short-lived battle, she had had time to observe the damage sustained by both vessels. So far, they were definitely emerging the victors. On the Cylon ship, the hangar door to each still-functional landing bay was closed, preventing access. The Cylons knew that humans had already smuggled themselves aboard, and no matter how impossible it seemed during a capital ship battle, Commander Syphax wasn't about to let them get away with it again.

Or so the IL thought.

"This better work, Dorado, or my husband will kill you," Luana murmured, her ship moving ever closer to the closed hangar door. She reduced speed so she was merely drifting towards the menacing behemoth, moving at only a few centimetrons per centon, relative. It went against every instinct.

In the worst-case scenario she would nudge the Base Ship, certainly pick up a dent or two. She was sure the Espridian craft could withstand a smooch with a Cylon capital ship, no matter how revolting the thought. However, if Dorado was right, that wasn't going to happen.

It had only been a few days before they launched on this mission that Dorado had received his newly constructed cybernetic eye from Malus. She'd known that the captain had been afflicted with headaches from his temporary prosthesis, as his nervous system adjusted to the artificial presence. To his credit, their resident IL had worked tirelessly to improve the bridge officer's situation, both medically _and_ aesthetically.

Typically, Starbuck had talked Dorado into "taking a spin" in a Hybrid fighter, the first time the Colonial Warrior had co-piloted anything since his near fatal accident on Planet 'P'. Not that it had taken a lot of persuading, actually. The man missed being in a cockpit so much, he could almost smell the tylium fumes in his sleep. It was while he was out there that Dorado had noticed that when Luana did a fly by in the Wraith on full ECM that he could see a slight ripple in space with his naked eye, but that his _cybernetic_ eye couldn't detect a thing. At the time he'd reasoned he merely needed to get accustomed to his new "eye", or perhaps it needed some slight adjustments. However, later when he mentioned it to the IL, Malus had theorized that Cylon optical sensors functioned outside of those wavelons of Espridian origin. Further, Malus suggested that with an ECM so advanced as to make a ship escape even the most sophisticated detection, there was only one reasonable explanation. The Wraiths could actually travel and exist within an _alternate_ quantum reality while at the same time travelling through _this_ one. From a human's narrow point of view, it was much easier to rationalize that the Espridian ECM was "top notch", rather than consider a seemingly impossible alternative.

But hey, whatever worked.

Luana sucked in a deep breath, feeling a shiver pass through her as the Wraith nosed forward, melting into the hull. It was a little too close to what she and Starbuck had undergone a few sectars ago over Planet 'P', being molecularly disassembled and then reconstructed again in the Dynamo network. Instinctively, she closed her eyes as the recon ship kept advancing, cutting through solid metal as easily as a boat through the ocean.

When she opened her eyes again, she was in the landing bay. She shouldn't have been surprised that it was empty. After all, every available centurion they had left had to be either manning a weapons station or attempting to control the fires raging around the ship.

Adroitly, she brought the Wraith in for a landing in the empty bay. After selecting a spot on the deck, then powering down, she sat in the cockpit for several microns before opting to leave her auxiliary power on and her ECM running. It was something that she admittedly hadn't even thought about doing before, but the mere fact that it seemed to be possible led her to believe that the Espridians had once left their ships "camouflaged" in this way while they explored other worlds. The problem was, of course, that she didn't have any personal Espridian force field that she could hide beneath once she left the relative safety of her Wraith.

Not deterred, she opened her canopy, reaching beneath her seat and pulling out her survival pack before agilely scrambling down from the cockpit. She pulled the burdensome pack on, instinctively checking the Colonial blasters on either thigh and the solenite charges on her belt. A quick glance back at the Wraith revealed only a barely detectable ripple in the air. Determined to come back, she checked a couple of landmarks, silently hoping no centurions came along and blundered into it.

Then she headed for the brig.

xxxxx

The _Endeavour_ shuddered under the impact of the _Ravager_'s lasers, but their shields were holding. Damage was negligible, and they were drawing the enemy further away from Earth. For now the trick was to stay out of the effective range of the Cylon mega pulsar, while trying to appear that they were attempting to lock on with their own, while in reality Dayton really just wanted to keep the orbiting killer away from his home world long enough to effect a rescue for their cadets.

Strategy wasn't just about overall planning; rather it required quick and appropriate responses to changing conditions. If anyone had told him a year ago that he'd be risking the lives of billions of Earthmen for a handful of young Colonial Warriors, he'd probably have punched them. Or told them they'd been sampling too much asteroid whiskey.

Even now, analysing it all, he wondered how he'd been talked into this. _You're getting soft in your old age, Dayton._

"Commander, forward lasers locked on," Dorado reported somewhat reluctantly from the _Endeavour_'s Control Centre. "We're at full power."

Dayton nodded, glancing at the data scrolling up his screen on the enemy vessel. Between the mega-pulsar blowing and the other hits she'd suffered at their hand, if they battered her any harder the old _Ravager_ would be blown to Hell, unfortunately taking their cadets with her. Telemetry told the tale as they watched the fiery red glow indicating that severe damage had been done to the enemy warship. Visually, they could see the ruptured hull plates and the shedding debris from the blast that silenced the weapon. "We need to give them some time, Captain. Stand by. But if there's even the slightest inkling they're going to use their lower mega-pulsar, hit them with everything we've got."

"I figured you'd say that, sir," Dorado replied.

"You'd better be right about this, El Dorado," the Earthman said after another moment. He glanced at those arriving in the Control Centre, shaking his head at what was yet to come. It was like a scene out of _Galaxy Quest_, only real life wasn't supposed to be a sci-fi comedy . . .

Dorado swallowed hard, leaning forward over the console. "Don't I know it."

xxxxx

"By-your-command."

"Speak, Centurion," Syphax ordered, almost wearily. Sometimes protocol was so tiresome. Especially when dealing with these dim-bulbed centurions.

"The-_Harrower_-is-withdrawing, Commander."

"Withdrawing?" Syphax turned around, head snapping up. "What?"

"Affirmative. They-are-withdrawing."

"Why?"

"Unknown."

Emergency crews and automated fire and damage control were failing at containing the fires raging throughout the _Ravager_. Their shields were down to barely ten percent. Electromagnetic impulses levelled at Earth to disrupt their defensive weaponry were intermittent, at best. And the somewhat lacklustre and feeble attack by their counterpart had still done enough damage that about the last thing the IL had expected was a retreat. Something peculiar was happening aboard that Base Ship.

"Incoming-message-from-_Harrower_, Commander."

"On screen, Centurion."

"By-your-command."

A micron later Syphax was gazing in astonishment at the melee in the _Harrower_'s Control Centre. Lasers were firing erratically and smoke was belching from consoles and downed centurions. Several humans lay unmoving, presumably dead. One human seemed to be engaged in arm-to-arm combat with a Cylon, the two spinning in a tight circle. Another centurion was moving to attack a human with his sword. Then, in a burst of static, the screen went dark.

Had he made a tactical error?

"Humans-have-boarded-the-_Harrower_-as-well," one centurion helpfully pointed out to him. "They-are-under-attack."

"I realize that _now,_ you idiot!" Syphax replied. "Hold fire! Recall all Raiders!"

"By-your . . ."

"Yes! My command! I know!"

xxxxx

The detonator cords embedded in the F-35s glass blew, cracking the canopy along the edges and down the centre line, as the ejection seat punched its way out of the disintegrating aircraft. All in all, it had worked a damn sight better than the ejection seat in his Viper back on Atilla, Starbuck reckoned. Yes, much better, considering that on that occasion, it hadn't worked at _all_, and he'd come down in a Cylon-infested swamp! He clenched his stomach muscles as he was catapulted through the air while his fighter spiralled downwards in a trail of debris, fire and smoke. He couldn't help but look upward, abruptly inspired to renew his faith in the Almighty, as he waited for his drogue parachute to open.  
A welcome jolt indicated his chute had indeed deployed, and he let out a relieved breath as his lofty descent was slowed. The gentle rocking motion was so diametrically opposed to the battle going on around him that he almost laughed aloud.  
Until he lurched suddenly sideways at approximately mach one point eight.

"_Fra-ack_!"

xxxxx

"Colonel!" Dietra exclaimed. "You've got to see this!"

"I see it . . . but I don't believe it!" Apollo replied, eyes glued to the scene unfolding before them. One missile and one Raider were out of the fight, but so was Starbuck.

"What the _hell_?" Baker muttered from the third seat, behind them. "Star . . . what is it with that guy?"

"It could _only_ happen to Starbuck," Dietra concluded, shaking her head.

One moment they were marvelling that the _Endeavour_ strike captain had actually survived his close encounter with a missile, which had blown up the Raider he was targeting. The next, they were watching with jaws agape as the warrior's ejector seat had been caught up in something an F-35 was trailing, pulling him along behind it, his chute now a tangled mess as he disappeared into the wisps of a cloudbank.

"Must be the decoy towline," Baker suggested.

"The _what_?" Apollo asked, carefully eying up one of the two remaining missiles on a downward trajectory as he fired his lasers. The missile exploded in a billowing plume of fire and smoke. Two down, one to go.

"Nice shooting, Colonel!" Dietra enthused.

"Decoy drones," Baker replied, clapping Apollo briefly on the shoulder in congratulations. "They're released for countermeasures, creating a radar image to mimic the aircraft. They get dragged about a hundred of your metrons behind the aircraft on a thin cable. That's the towline," the Earthman explained, as the distance between them and the city narrowed. "It's non-metallic and made of radar-absorbent materials. At least our scanning equipment can't pick it up."

"Can they release it?" Dietra asked, holding her breath as another F-35 fired on the remaining missile. It looked too close . . . Sure enough, the missile exploded, its blast radius enveloping the Earth ship. She flinched and sucked in a breath between her teeth, momentarily wondering if it had been heroic sacrifice or bad judgment. Three missiles down, two Raiders to go.

"Sure," Baker replied after a pause. "But do you want him to drop from twenty thousand feet?"

"Not this centon, but ask me again tomorrow," she replied lightly, her eyes narrowing. "How does it work? He actually goes down in the ejector seat?" She frowned. "I'm not sure that I like that."

"There's probably a sequencer that senses altitude and speed," Baker explained. "Normally, the drogue chute would slow him enough that the automatic system would release the harness and the arm and leg restraints. Then the main chute would open, pulling him from the seat. But that's just not going to happen . . ."

Apollo spared her a glance. "Baker, try to raise the pilot. Let him know he's dragging Starbuck behind him."

"Down one chute with the sequence all screwed up, Starbuck might not survive the fall, Apollo, and I hate to tell you, but that pilot is the one best situated to catch up with those Cylons right now. He isn't going to slow down."

"I know, but we still need to warn him. If the Cylons plan on doing a strafing run, they'll need to get a lot lower to the ground."

"You figure he can release the towline then," Baker ventured.

"Especially if we're still over a body of water."

"Right! Modern ejection seats are equipped with automatic life raft inflation units. If the fall isn't too far or fast . . ."

"Exactly. It's the best chance he has," Apollo replied tensely.

xxxxx

The pavement exploded in a blinding swath of destruction that tore through Manhattan. Lauren lay dazed in the backseat of the overturned sedan just long enough to realize that the Cylons were ripping apart the heart of New York City. She forced her sluggish limbs to respond, climbing out through the shattered rear window, wiping at a trail of blood that trickled down her forehead. One of the occupants had a piece of windshield rammed through his eye. She didn't even taken the time to figure out if her captors were still alive. It wasn't like she was going to offer them her assistance, after all.

People all around her were screaming in terror, the rest were dead, incinerated by Cylon lasers, burned to death in their vehicles, or buried under flaming rubble. How a vibrant neighbourhood could be completely erased off the map with one strike from a futuristic weapon was mind numbing. She covered her mouth, fighting back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. The acrid smoke from burning debris and burning flesh made her cough and choke, as she ran back down the street in the direction they'd come from, joining the terrified fleeing masses. Somewhere in the back of her mind beyond the horror she realized that complete chaos was an effective distraction to affect her escape.

Suddenly, there was a searing pain in her left leg, and she tumbled to the cracked pavement, grunting as the wind was knocked out of her. She took a look, quickly assessing the bullet wound as a mere graze and unworthy of any further consideration. She forced herself to her feet, gritting her teeth against the pain as her pant leg quickly became saturated with blood. Through grid locked traffic, she ran with a heavy limp, the name "Hopalong Cassidy" springing into her mind, unbidden. She now knew that her captors were still in hot pursuit. She also realized she should have grabbed a weapon from one of them, but she had always been better with the pen, as the saying went. It just figured that she'd get the _dedicated_ maniac-assassins after her, instead of those who decided, "to hell with the meddlesome journalist, let's worry about the end of the world instead".

"How in God's name did I ever get so lucky?" she muttered to herself.

"_Lauren Michelle_!"

Now there were only three people who were allowed to call her that, and one of them had been missing in action since she was three years old. Yeah, suffice it to say it got her attention. She turned towards the voice, dodging parked cars and keeping her head down as her heart began to pump like a locomotive on steroids, just about pounding its way out of her chest. She nearly tripped over a body in her path, barely evading the bullet that sailed past where her head had been a second before.

Then a stranger, dressed in slightly old-fashioned motorcycle leathers was suddenly in her face, grabbing her arm, pivoting her to the right like a maniacal dance partner, as he fired off several shots in the direction she'd fled from. She heard a cry of pain, but didn't turn to look. She was too stunned to even react in any sensible manner as she gawked at him. He was short and stocky with thinning grey hair and brown eyes, somehow not what she was expecting from a would-be hero.

_Oh God! Please, don't let him be a . . ._

"I'm Fred. I'm here to help," he told her in a soft, yet clear voice.

"D-do I . . . do I know you?" she stuttered. Something about him gave her the creeps, yet she also sensed truth in his words.

"No, but your grandfather did, Lauren. He used to talk about you and your sister. The _Sweetie Bear_ and the _Pumpkin Girl_." He pushed her down behind a mailbox, using it for cover as he returned fire once again. Bullets blasted into a building behind them, peppering them with bits of concrete and brick dust. Once more he fired, and there was a scream somewhere.

The old childhood nicknames hit her out of the blue, but they substantiated his link to her family. Nobody had used those names in ages. Even her grandmother had uttered them only once, after their grandfather had passed on. No one alive even knew them, save she and Jess. "My grandfather's been dead for years," she told him.

"A real loss. Especially considering he went before his time." "Fred" looked at her and she understood at once what he meant. More shots were exchanged. "But that doesn't mean we haven't been keeping watch over you and Jessica throughout the years."

"Who are you?"

"A Brother of Eden."

"Huh?"

"Just . . ." Bullets pinged off the wall, and "Fred" let loose with a barrage. "C'mon. Let's go!"

xxxxx

Starbuck couldn't see a bloody thing, zipping through the clouds in an ejector seat that was _supposed_ to be attached to a parachute, not a fighter! The howling wind tore at him, making him feel as if he were in the midst of a storm. Even with supplemental oxygen, his heart was doing its level best to leap up out of his throat and choke him, which was a probably a good thing considering how his stomach was feeling just now. He spun crazily, his knuckles white as they gripped his harness. It was the most gut-wrenching, raucous, wild ride he'd ever been on, and the crazy thing was that it might have been fun if he couldn't hear the blast of Cylon lasers and the staccato of Lightning cannons all around him. One stray shot and he was dead.

_Sagan's sake, Bucko, that might be the best-case scenario up here_ . . .

Suddenly, he cleared the clouds, sunlight hitting him in the face as he came out over the city at an altitude of about fifteen hundred metrons and dropping. From the looks of things, an F-35 was dragging him along in pursuit of a Raider. He snorted in disbelief. What were the odds of _that_ happening to a guy? Then again, when the guy was Starbuck, the odds abruptly changed.

The city spread out for kilometrons in all directions, till it met the waterways. They had made it to civilization, what part exactly he had no idea, since at this altitude and velocity he couldn't exactly make out any street signs. Below him he could see a trail of fire, smoke and debris cutting a swath of death through a metropolitan area as he continued to spin on the end of the line. Even as he watched, something below exploded violently, adding to the mayhem. The devastation _had_ to be the result of a Cylon strafing run. It took him right back to the night of the Destruction when he'd finally made it to Aurora's house, her home and the entire neighbourhood a sea of flaming rubble and charred bodies. A shudder ran through him at the thought of what was happening on the ground. Usually, there was a blessed distance between fighter pilots and civilian devastation that as a group they seldom dwelled upon.

Abruptly, a wide body of water appeared below him again. He clawed at the manual release on his harness, determined to get off this ride from Hades Hole at the right time, even if it meant taking a cold swim in whatever river was below him if his main parachute failed. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, ready to force his cold fingers do his bidding. _Just ten more microns, then they'd be past the next bridge_ . . . Then his stomach lurched and he suddenly dropped like a stone while still in his ejector seat.

_Great, Bucko! Just great!_


	53. Chapter Nineteen: Part One

Chapter Nineteen

The Earth pilot had prematurely released his towline that had snagged Starbuck, and now the Colonial Warrior was plunging downward, dropping out of the sky like a tylinium balloon! Now in _Colonial_ physics, it was a well-established fact that forward momentum didn't necessarily stop just because the gallmonging aircraft pulling you along had released its decoy. Either it was different here on Earth, or he needed to have words with General Roach about his pilot's lousy timing . . . provided he ever got that chance.

His gut flipped in horror while the distance between him and a suspension bridge narrowed at a terrifying rate. The bridge was in ruin, its deck destroyed on the centre span, another victim of the strafing run, no doubt. Yeah, _of course_ all this was running through his brain as he plummeted through the air, cringing as he waited for the impact. He was supposed to die heroically in combat, not fall to his death, splattering into a bloody pile of pulp on one of the only solid structures in the radius of a hundred frackin' metrons! Milli-centons before he would hit, he closed his eyes, holding his breath. For a fatalistic moment he conceded that the sequencing in the ejector seat's system had been royally fracked up; the main chute had failed. _This is really it, pal_, he reasoned even as his mind vehemently denied the inevitable. Then abruptly his harness and limb restraints released, and he was yanked painfully upwards out of the ejector seat.

A micron later, he jerked to a halt, before whipping through the air in a tight arc. He opened his eyes just in time to see a grid of bridge cables fill his vision before he crashed into them. The breath was knocked out of him on impact before he rebounded away again, flailing urgently at the end of the line. This time as he swung back towards the cables, he reached out, barely managing to get a grip and stopping his pendulous path. He clung tightly to the cables, as his forward momentum reached some sort of equilibrium, catching his breath raggedly as the air crackled and boomed with the sound of fighters battling in the distance.

Selfish relief swept over him, followed by an aching exhaustion that made his limbs seem to weigh a kiloton or three. Lords, even blinking seemed too arduous just now, and he swore that every jarred and jerked bone in his body was on fire. But he was _alive_. It was a frackin' miracle. After escaping a situation like that,_ someone_ up there was obviously looking out for him . . . maybe toying with him a bit too, which he was willing to forgive for now.

Then he heard it. The sound of an approaching aircraft. He knew that sound; he knew it all too well. He lifted his head wearily, letting out a breath of despair as he saw the Raider approaching from up river. It was headed straight for him.

"_Why me_?" he groaned, resting his forehead against a cool cable as he tried to figure out his next move.

It was about thirty metrons to the bridge deck below, such as it was, littered with debris and the remains of burning vehicles. He tried to draw on his reserves and gather what was left of his wits, sussing out the situation before the Raider screamed down on him for another strafing run to finish the job on the bridge that its predecessor had started. Despite the fact that dawn had recently broken, the bridge had been packed to capacity, a major conduit across the channel. Through the haze of wafting smoke he could see that vehicles in the direct line of fire were now burnt and twisted metal hulks. Shattered and savaged bodies littered a buckled and scarred car deck. One large heavy-duty commercial transport—what Grae Ryan had called an eighteen-wheeler while in the city—was wedged through the opening where the deck had partially collapsed, its trailer jack-knifed across the bridge. A support pylon underneath the bridge must have been hit, sustaining an unknown amount of damage. How many smaller cars had plummeted directly into the river before that monstrosity had wedged its cab into the chasm? Was the entire bridge in danger of collapsing? He didn't even want to think about it. In either direction, close to a hundred other vehicles were piled up in two solid masses of crumpled wrecks, as those people still capable fled the bridge in both directions, scurrying over the devastation en masse. The Cylons had to have been using at least fifty megon loads when they attacked to warp and destroy solid steel-reinforced concrete. It was mayhem down there, and people screamed in terror, especially with another Raider bearing down on them. They needed help _now_, damn it! But instead death was hurtling towards them at Mach Three, intent on incinerating them with Cylon laser cannons.

Starbuck hooked a leg and an arm around the thick network of cables in front of him, releasing his harness and shrugging his way out of it. He glanced at the approaching Raider one more time, and then did a double take. His mouth opened in silent astonishment.

It was waggling.

"Thank you, Lord," he muttered, raising a hand and waving as the Hybrid soared over him a few microns later. As he watched it pass, instinctively he knew they'd be back to try to protect the innocent victims that were unlucky enough to be in the right place at the wrong time. They were guardian angels camouflaged to look like the Devil. Little did Apollo know the all-consuming terror he struck into every person down there when he flew overhead.

"Don't panic! It's one of ours!" Starbuck yelled down at them, before realizing he was using Colonial Standard. He tried again in Earthspeak, but his voice was lost in the pandemonium. He began to scramble down the grid of cables, the foul stench of burning flesh and rubber filling his senses as smoke enveloped him. A car exploded nearby, and the sudden compression wave of heat and the deafening roar almost knocked him from his precarious perch. He coughed as he sucked in a lungful of foul, thick air, clinging to the cables once again. Meanwhile, the pressing masses raced in frenzy towards either end of the bridge, screaming in terror, and probably stampeding those in their path that moved too slowly. He shook his head at the horror of it all. They were out of control, survival instinct driving their mass exodus. In the distance he could hear sirens.

_Was this what it was like, when the Cylons destroyed the Colonies? Did all the terror and confusion boil up into one great miasma of horror? _

Finally, he jumped down to the surface, his knees almost buckling in sympathy with the bridge as he felt the heat coming off a nearby inferno where cars had exploded. He ran a hand over his sweaty face, pausing in indecision. His conscience told him to look for trapped survivors, while his instinct told him to run like the very daggits of Hades Hole were nipping at his heels. Then he heard a faint cry. He turned, straining his ears to trace the source, while another fire licked to life in a nearby car.

_Get out of here, Bucko; you've pushed your luck far enough for one day!_

No, he didn't listen to it this time either.

He turned, picking out a hasty path through the debris before beginning to scramble over wrecked vehicles, following the plea for help. It led him towards the buckled car deck and the commercial transport wedged through the chasm left by a Cylon laser cannon. There were few vehicles left on the ragged slope that was pitched at about a forty-five degree decline. Likely, they had disappeared into the chasm when the deck had partially collapsed, just before the eighteen wheeler had plugged up the hole like a cork. He climbed onto the roof of the jack-knifed trailer hanging over the precipice between the buckled and intact decks, trying to see some sign of life as he looked down the twisted, battered downgrade that extended about thirty-five metrons. Lords, but it looked like a _bad_ idea to go down there . . .

"Where are you?" he yelled at the top of his lungs, remembering his Earthspeak this time. He broke out coughing as his seasoned lungs protested the lack of curing, not to mention the distinctly foul aroma of the smoke wafting his way. "I'm here to help!"

"Oh, thank God!" shrieked the reply, distinctly female, from beyond the buckled car deck. The fear in her voice was palpable. "Here! I'm down here!"

xxxxx

"Did you see the way they reacted?" Dietra asked Apollo and Baker, the image still vivid in all of their minds. While Starbuck—still alive and miraculously in one piece as he clung to the savaged bridge—had been waving victoriously at them, every other living soul had been desperately and hysterically trying to get away when they did their fly by.

"I guess we're too covert for comfort," Apollo replied soberly.

"Better let someone _else_ watch his back," Baker replied, taking over the comm suite once again. "This is Triton One of the _Endeavour_ trying to raise the Eighty-Seventh Airbase wing leader. Do you read?"

"_Affirmative, Triton One. Colonel Baxter here. Go ahead_."

"Colonel, Captain Starbuck is an official member of the Martin-Baker fan club; he's punched out. We have a visual sighting of him on the Brooklyn Bridge. He looks okay, but I can't say the same for the bridge or the poor people who were on it."

"_Roger that, Triton One. Emergency crews are on their way. They'll get him_."

"_Triton One, this is Major Ryan. I've got Starbuck's six_."

"_No need for that, Major Ryan, I repeat, our emergency crews will affect rescue. Maintain formation_."

"_Roger that_."

"_Ryan,_" it was only a moment later, "_where the hell are you going_?" an annoyed Colonel Baxter suddenly asked, as an F-35 changed heading.

"_Wherever the hell I please. I'm not actually under your command, Colonel_."

"_You are while you're flying our bird_ . . ."

"_I made a promise, and short of you shooting me down, I intend to keep it_."

"_Tempting, Ryan_ . . ."

"Ryan?" Apollo asked, glancing back at the Earthman.

Baker shook his head. "Coincidence." He glanced at the scanners. There were still two Raiders over New York City, each making strafing runs over Manhattan. "Let's go bag us a trashcan."

xxxxx

They'd had to double back and change their route a couple times, due to destroyed passageways and sealed compartments on the _Ravager_, many of which could be attributed to their sabotage. Rising urgency aside, finally Xenia and Acastus had arrived at the emergency escape hatch that was located on the deck above the brig. Although they had to wonder why a ship full of robots would even _need _an emergency escape hatch.

"What do you think we'll find in there?" Acastus asked as he punched in the access code, identical to the _Endeavour_'s, then carefully turned the wheel on the hatch. It obeyed smoothly, giving them no trouble.

"I'd rather _not_ think about it," Xenia replied, sucking in a deep breath as long buried memories of interrogation by the Cylons hit her like a tsunami. She could feel an old familiar panic sweeping over her as images of another brig worlds away replaced the here and now. Her heart pounded in her chest painfully as she tried to force those nightmares back into the vault where they'd lingered for close to ten yahrens . . .

"Starbuck said there were guards in the brig on Arcta," Acastus recalled. "Two, I think."

"Yeah, I know. I suggest you shoot them if he's right," she replied, her voice tight.

He looked over at her, suddenly concerned. "Are you still with me?"

She nodded sharply, sucking in a breath between her teeth. Her hands were shaking.

"You're sure?" Acastus demanded. "I can't do this on my own, Xenia."

"Why not? Starbuck did," she countered, a touch of . . . _what_ in her voice? Asperity? Anger? What on Kobol . . ..

"I'm not Starbuck," he replied, taking her by the arms and turning her towards him. "Something that people keep reminding me of. Remember?"

She looked up at him, fighting down her emotional need to curl into a ball and find a safe place. There wasn't one. She cleared her throat, but her voice still sounded raspy as she pulled out of his grasp. "I can't do this, Acastus. I can't do this again."

"You _have_ to. That's all there is to it," he replied. "But I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

"You don't have the _right_ to make a promise you can't keep," she whispered.

"I don't know what to say to make you realize you just have to _do it_, Xenia. We don't have any other choice just now."

"I know. Just give me a micron." She closed her eyes, forcing back her demons.

"That might be all we have," he reminded her. From somewhere far away, a rumble passed through the ship, and the lights dimmed for a moment.

"You're a pushy bastard, aren't you?" she replied, rallying. "Did our hero teach you that?" She opened her eyes and nodded at him. "Okay, let's do this."

He lifted the hatch, looking at her again. She nodded at him. He jumped.

xxxxx

"I think they're buying it, people!" Dayton announced, setting down the centurion armour he'd been "fighting" with, and waiting while Paddy undid the zap strap that had held its "hands" in place, making it look as though it had been choking him. Porter—resuming his role as Centurion Portex in full Cylon regalia—had already switched off the laser light show he had created for their next Officer's Club party when they had abruptly stopped their transmission to the Cylons. Grinning at the commander, he sheathed his sword. Others also removed their "costumes" as science techs and other "extras" prepared to return to their stations. The staged "attack" in the Control Centre had been Porter's idea, as they stalled for more time while trying to rationalize their relatively half-assed attack to the enemy.

"And you told me I should be a thespian not an astronaut," Porter ribbed his friend.

"Cudgel thy brains no more about it," Dayton returned with a grin.

"For your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating," added Paddy, slipping the Cylon head off.

"Speaking of dull asses, Hamlet," Porter quipped.

It had been a solid minute since the _Ravager_ had fired on them. Not only that, they'd picked up long-range communications directed towards Earth in Cylon code recalling their Raiders. Fortunately, they had that same code on record in the _Endeavour_'s data banks. Not for the first time, Dayton sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Cylon predictability.

"Uh, Commander Dayton, sir," Technician Arcadius said tentatively as he unhooked some equipment to return to the lab, "Commander Curtis is pressing to find out what's going on. He and Dr. Mufti have been in the lab a few times, sir." From his tone, it was clear the visits had been both unsolicited and annoying.

Dayton frowned. The Barstow Base commander had been far from his mind since they'd rescued his crew on Mars. "Did you tell him we're a little busy? That we're in combat, Arcadius?"

"Yes, sir." The young man cleared his throat. "As I was getting the laser display and the smoke machine . . ." his voice trailed off as he shrugged. "I don't think they were entirely convinced. Looked more like I was going to a party, sir."

"Well, we do combat a little differently around here," Dorado said, checking his chrono.

"Whether we like it or not," Dayton added. There was a brief moment when he'd decided to crush the enemy, making them pay for the death and destruction they'd unleashed on his home planet. Suddenly, that focus had shifted to retrieving their young warriors, while keeping the Cylons sufficiently busy . . .

_Then_ he'd crush them.

xxxxx

Lauren Dayton hung onto "Fred" for dear life, doing her best to ignore the throbbing in her leg. He rode the high-powered crotch-rocket like a stuntman, zipping down alleyways, sidewalks, stairwells, across parks, and whatever else got in their way as they put some distance between themselves and Manhattan. The smouldering landscape passed her by in a blur, the wind whipping her hair relentlessly as tears of frustration, sadness, fear, pain and horror tracked down her face. When they headed over the George Washington Bridge, weaving between the fleeing vehicles and striking out for Jersey across the Hudson River, she couldn't help but hold her breath, almost expecting Cylon lasers to destroy their escape route as the sound of strafing runs pummelling New York echoed behind them. Once again, Fred hijacked the sidewalk, with little apparent regard for any pedestrians as they leapt to get out of the way.

He'd called himself a "Brother of Eden" and had intimated that her grandfather had also belonged to this group. But as much as she'd been wracking her brain, trying to recall every legitimate and otherwise organization of that or any similar name, she was coming up blank. The Biblical reference was a no-brainer, of course, but she couldn't exactly recall Adam forming a club after the whole "apple, serpent and Eve" scene.

Had an ancient organization snuck past the collective notice of mankind? Had they shut themselves up in secret chambers, sworn fearful oaths, employed emblems which they alone interpreted in one way or another, spoken in a coded language peculiar to themselves, exchanged special signs with one another, whispered mysterious words, engaged in ancient rites, and actually maintained anonymity? Had they done all this, and somehow managed to survive the tumults and changes of countless centuries?

She wasn't quite sure if she should be impressed or terrified by that.

xxxxx

Starbuck picked his way reluctantly down the ruptured, uneven downgrade, refusing to let himself be propelled along by urgency _or_ gravity, while he gingerly tested the partially collapsed deck for stability. It seemed to quiver in indecision, and he froze for a moment, wondering if the groaning he could hear was the section of bridge or his inner sense of self-preservation haranguing him for even thinking about this. Admittedly, he was no structural engineer. Could the weight of one devastatingly handsome, albeit overtired Colonial Warrior tip the scale in favour of the whole thing crashing down into the river? It seemed unlikely, but then again the way his day was going, he wouldn't rule it out, either.

The slope was a mixture of jagged concrete where the surface had broken and crumbled or melted road top with slagged rebar sticking out where Cylon lasers had laid everything to waste. He made his way past the front end of the jack-knifed trailer, past the lines and cables coming off it, to find the main tractor wedged tightly into the space where the car deck had partially collapsed on top of it. Most of the rig was hanging suspended in mid air, dangling about fifty metrons over the river. The vehicle was huge, almost forty metrons long, and tall enough to . . . well to get jammed between two levels of destroyed decking and stop it sliding into the river below. On the side door two words were painted in Earth Speak that he couldn't make out. _SNOW WHITE_. It probably didn't matter what they indicated, provided it wasn't some hideously volatile cargo. Enormous chunks of concrete and twisted metal from what was left of the severed deck above him were strewn around, some of them crushing the frame of the transport.

"Where are you?" Starbuck yelled from the edge of the precipice.

"In the rig!" a voice hollered back from inside the commercial transport that was sharply pitched downward. "Down . . . down here!"

"That's what I was afraid of," Starbuck murmured quietly, trying to figure out how he was going to reach her. There was a casing for a fuel tank that stretched out horizontally beneath the door, a mounted footstep above it. Hanging onto the rig he could make his way carefully along it. But at a downgrade of fifty to sixty percent, it would only take one slip, one misstep, and he would drop into the river far below. It would take a man of courage, a man of uncanny ability, a man just crazy enough to take the risk . . . well, one out of three wasn't bad, he figured.

"Please hurry!" she pleaded, this time leaning out of the open window, her eyes wide as she looked below at the shear drop before turning her plaintive gaze to him.

His breath caught in his throat. She was well . . . _endowed_ . . . uh . . . yes, very much so . . . with a . . . a pretty, yet terrified face, her large blue eyes staring at him fearfully in a face fringed with golden blonde hair. Her low-cut shirt was stretched tautly and hazardously across her chest, possibly making it difficult to breathe, or so he reckoned, from the shallow heaving the buxom beauty was doing. She filled the window completely and attractively. He took a deep breath . . .

"Hey! Soldier boy!" Her tone of voice completely changed from tremulous to sharp. "Wanna get a move on!"

His head snapped up a notch and he looked her in the eye. She appeared to be a bit on the indignant side of outraged. He gave her his best "caught in the act" smile, rationalizing that there was _plenty_ of room in her heart for a little forgiveness if he was going to risk his neck for her. "Uh, the name's Starbuck. I'm going to get you out of here," he reassured her. "What's your name?"

"They call me Snow White, and you can pass on the wisecracks, buster, I've heard them all before," she replied., her eyes going wide when a chuck of concrete fell from above, hitting the frame of the truck. The whole vehicle wobbled. "_Get me out of here_!" she shrieked.

"Easy, now! Don't panic. You're going to be fine, but you have to _stay calm_," Starbuck said, holding his hands up innocuously as he started to climb up onto the rig. Lordy, but it was a _long_ way down . . ._ This is insane even by your standards, Bucko._ He climbed back down. "You, er . . . don't have a rope in there, do you, Snow White?" he asked hopefully.

She frowned at him, looking down at her ample bosom pointedly, before looking back. "In _where_ exactly?"

"The _truck_," he replied with a faint grin at her sauciness, waiting when she disappeared back inside. "A tool kit? Equipment compartment?" he called.

At a closer glance he could see the decking had crushed the main transport frame and the door was buckled. There was no chance in Hades hole that it would open without cutters or even a good, old-fashioned pry bar. He didn't like the idea of her climbing through the window and trying to keep her balance as she pressed herself against the truck . . . especially weighted the way she was.

A rope was suddenly thrust out of the window. "Should I throw it to you?" she asked.

"Can you secure it to something in the truck first?" he asked, waiting again while she disappeared inside. He could hear her muttering in her own language, and didn't need his languaphone to figure out her message of frustration.

"Okay. I tied it to the wheel!"

"Good!"

A few moments later, she was leaning outside the window, letting out the slack on the rope before tossing its coiled length to him. He caught it, and climbed up onto the back of the rig, crossing its solid width to the trailer. There were latches mounted onto the front of the trailer that would work perfectly. He tied the rope off, making the length between the door and the trailer taut, before securing a loop around his waist as a safety line. Then he put the rest over his shoulder.

"I'm coming out there," he told her. He looked up, hearing an explosion in the distance, and the whine of Cylon lasers. Lords, how many were dying across the city?

"Be careful," she said, biting her full bottom lip.

"That goes without saying."

If it hadn't been for the steep downgrade, it would have relatively simple. He pulled sharply on the rope, testing the knots, before tentatively making his way downhill towards Snow White. The drop to the water was about fifty metrons. He tried not to think about the people who had fallen to their deaths already, trapped in the confines of their vehicles. Eerily, he couldn't see any sign of them. Perhaps a watery grave was preferable to burning alive in their vehicles. He tried not to think of that, returning to the problem at hand. How strong was the current in the river? Was their best bet to lower themselves to the water, awaiting rescue, or to take their chances back up on the bridge? He could hear sirens in the distance.

"I see a boat!" Snow White called.

He looked to where she was pointing. A small passenger boat was heading towards them, a man on the bow holding something up to his eyes as he followed their progress. Some sort of vid-cam? He was waving an arm and yelling something, but at this distance there was no way Starbuck could make it out over the sound of the boat's engine or the scream of emergency sirens in the distance.

"Can you swim?" he asked Snow White as he came up alongside the window, looking in. Some sort of huge inflatable device had been activated on impact, which still filled the driver's side of the cab. It had evidently done a good job of keeping her from being pulped against the wheel. She was a real beauty, dressed in snugly fitting denim shorts that accentuated her long, shapely legs. And in his strictly professional opinion—that of the totally detached, heroic potential rescuer—she certainly _looked_ buoyant.

"No," she whispered, looking past him down at the river fearfully. No wonder she'd been scared stiff and hadn't moved from the cab. She looked back at him, perhaps actually seeing him for the first time in her anxiety.

"Neither could I until I had a swimming instructor who would crack my knuckles with a pointer every time I reached for the edge of the pool. Trust me, you have it in you. Just suck in a breath of air and you'll float. I'll do the rest."

"I don't want to die."

"Who said anything about dying? Look, the Air Force conveniently gave me a life preserver. Personally, I think it would look better on you."

"Really?" she asked a little breathlessly, as he began to struggle out of it while holding onto the truck door with one hand.

"Really," he replied.

"What about you?" she asked, even as she started to pull it on.

He looked down at the unfriendly waters below. "Me? I swim like a piscon . . . er, a _fish_. All part of the military training. I'll be just fine."

She nodded gratefully as he helped her fasten it. "Did you actually say your name is _Starbuck_? Like the coffee? Or is that just a call sign, like in the movies?"

"It's really my name." He grinned at the incredulity in her tone. "You can pass on the wisecracks, Sweet Lady, I've heard them all before."

She actually cracked a smile. At that moment, he _knew_instinctively that they were going to be all right.

Abruptly, something exploded above them. Snow White screamed, lurching backwards into the cab as large fragments of concrete began to fall around him. He leaned forward, pressing himself against the door, hissing aloud as a fragment raked his back.

Apparently, his instinct in this instance was dead wrong.


	54. Chapter Nineteen: Part Two

An invincible force! Yes, she was! Ama could go anywhere in the galaxy with a light blink of her eyes, or do anything with a mere snap of her fingers, or even by just wishing it so. Her physical body had become lighter, more versatile, and she crossed realities as seamlessly as her father. Planets, solar systems, galaxies, whole entire universes! Realities she had never dreamed of! It was thrilling. Exhilarating. The universe was infinite and she could quite easily spend eternity discovering what truly was out there awaiting her inquisitive nature.

_Anywhere_ . . .

Then it suddenly occurred to her where she wanted to go, more than anywhere else. It came to her like a message from Triquetra or from an old familiar friend, which made her pause to wonder . . . But still, she had to know. It consumed her.

"No!" Iblis suddenly protested, the word battering both her consciousness and the universe around her.

Fleeing his ire and admittedly curious as to its source, she soared away across the heavens, anxious to finally have her questions answered. She could feel the pull of her father, his insistent omnipresence, but she fought against it, pulling away from him at last. She _would_ find the truth.

But would she recognize it when it slapped her in the face?

"No!" he repeated as she sped across space. "I forbid it, Ama!"

But he could forbid her nothing now.

xxxxx

With both lasers blazing, Luana cut a path through the Cylon Base Ship that would make Starbuck blanch and Apollo proud. She was raised a hunter in the hills of the Planet Empyrean, and hunting Cylons, while a little different from hunting game, wasn't _much_ of a stretch for this abdicated Empyrean princess. The one major difference being that wild game didn't shoot back.

She darted through the hatchway, a little surprised at the four centurions standing outside the brig. Fortunately, they were otherwise engaged and turned the other way, paying rapt attention as the brig door slid open. Laser fire was coming from within, and Lu wasted no time in adding her weapons to the exchange. She barrelled towards the brig, dropping and rolling, and coming up shooting once again. Cylon after Cylon fell, never even getting a lock on her. She _was _the Wraith, infiltrating this Cylon ship without their knowledge, and destroying anything that came between her and her objective.

"Ensign Luana!" came a voice.

Lu stepped over the downed centurions, fanning her weapon around the perimeter before stepping into the brig. A warrior was down, and Ensign Acastus was leaning anxiously over her. The woman was gasping, writhing in pain, her arms wrapped around her stomach, blood on her uniform and hands.

"How is she?" Lu asked, not remembering the injured cadet's name. She pulled her pack off of her shoulders, grabbing her medical kit.

"Gut shot," Acastus replied, reaching for the field dressing Luana handed him with bloody hands. He pressed it in place, wincing as the cadet groaned aloud, trying to curl up in a ball of agony. "Can you give her something for the pain?"

"I'm on it," she replied, pulling out the hypospray and quickly dosing the woman. Lords, there was a lot of blood. "What's her name?"

"Xenia. She saved my astrum, pushed me out of the way . . ."

"Xenia, we're going to get you back to the _Endeavour_ and let Cassiopeia look after that. You'll be good as new in a few days," Lu told her, watching her eyes dilate with the narcotic suddenly in her system. "Hang in there, Cadet."

Xenia's eyes fluttered, then opened wide as they locked onto the Empyrean woman. She snorted loudly. "Starbuck's frackin' wife! Don't it just figure. Goddamned _family_ of heroes . . ." Then she coughed, looking up at Acastus. "You did good, Ensign. You should be proud . . ." Her eyes fluttered shut.

Lu raised her eyebrows, looking at Acastus. "What was that all about?"

"Don't rightly know, but _I'm_ glad to see you!" he assured her, rising to his feet and crossing to the cold cells.

One by one, he opened them, releasing the other warriors. While a bit dazed and cold, they appeared to be unharmed, at least physically, as far as they could tell.

"Can you walk?" Acastus asked Trevanian.

"They don't need to," Lu replied, pulling the small but heavy Clavis out of her pack. "Gather round, gang. I have a one way ticket back to our base ship."

"What about our Hybrids?" Trevanian asked.

"Commander's orders were to send you all back with the Clavis. No exceptions," Lu replied, looking pointedly at the fallen cadet. She glanced at her chrono. "Besides, I think Zinnia needs a med tech sooner than later."

"_Xenia_," Acastus said.

"What about you, Ensign?" Lambda asked.

"Okay, _one_ exception. Me." She met their indignant gazes. Seems they were practicing to be Apollo. "You should all be proud of what you've accomplished, and know for sure that Commander Dayton is, but now it's that magical time when you follow orders and get your astrums back home. Our commander is waiting patiently to blow this barge to Hades hole, and he'd preferably do that knowing you're all aboard the _Endeavour_. Any ship scanned leaving this bucket will be incinerated. I think we all know that."

"You checked your chrono," Teles noted, "how much time do we have?"

"Two centons until the Clavis kicks in," Lu replied, standing. "Get in a tight circle around Zin . . .Xenia."

"What about you, Lu?" Ligea asked her.

"I figure on five centons to get back to the landing bay and out of here. That's when the _Endeavour_ will open fire, giving her all she's got. The Cylons can't detect the Wraith on full ECM. I'll be fine."

"Maybe so, but take _six_ centons," Acastus told her. "If Coxcoxtli is locking on the Clavis, you don't need to be here to supervise."

"True enough. I'll fry the entry panel on my way out. But just in case . . ." Luana handed him a weapon.

"Good luck, Ensign. And thanks for the assist," Acastus replied as she stood to go. "May the Lords of Kobol keep you safe."

She raised her laser slightly and patted the solenite charges on her belt. "I have that covered." Then she turned to go.

xxxxx

"Where on Earth are they going_?_" Baker murmured quietly behind Apollo and Dietra as the Hybrid Raider gained altitude, racing over Upper New York Bay in pursuit of one of the Cylon fighters that had broken through the Earth task force.

Two distinct pathways of destruction had been etched into the city from the Cylon strafing runs as they deviated north and south. The Lightning fighter was dogging the Raider that was continuing its fiery trail of death towards Central Park in Manhattan. Baker couldn't help but share that pilot's urgency, knowing that besides a couple million people there was also a collection of some of the most historical and famous landmarks in the area including Carnegie Hall, the American Museum of Natural History, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Guggenheim Museum. However, the Cylons the Colonials were chasing had changed course, heading towards New York Harbour. It didn't make much sense . . . unless . . . _oh, shit_! . . . unless they were targeting the most significant iconic American landmark in existence. "_C'mon, Apollo_! _Get 'em_!"

"In _Standard_, Baker!" the Colonial Colonel returned over his shoulder. "What did you say?"

"They're after the Statue of Liberty!" Baker said, this time in Colonial Standard, not even realizing he'd lapsed into English in the heat of the moment, and that Apollo had heard only gibberish. "It's an omnipresent symbol of freedom for our people! I . . .I can't even begin to explain it! We can't let them get her!"

"We won't," Apollo replied, coaxing everything he could out of the Hybrid's engines.

Stunned fury consumed the Earth astronaut, and he sat there white-knuckled as the gap between Cylons and humans narrowed far too slowly. _This_ attack on American soil would make the World Trade Centre fade into history as a relative bump in the road to maintaining freedom and liberty for all. In the minds of Americans, their country was the quintessential fortress, not to be impinged upon or—God forbid—invaded. There was an innate understanding that any such attempt would be avenged swiftly and forcefully, ceding no quarter.

_Yeah, I'm sure the Cylons are just leaking lube over that, Baker-boy! _

Baker clenched his teeth together, sitting on his hands, as he gruellingly waited while Libertas, the Roman Goddess of Freedom, grandly loomed ever larger on the horizon. He watched as Apollo actuated the attack computer, but the screen was delivering sludge, still subject to intermittent electromagnetic pulses from the _Ravager_.

"Manual sighting," Baker said, his voice clipped. The statue was definitely in range of the Raider now. There was no way those electronic garbage cans didn't see it.

"I know," Apollo replied tersely.

"This is why the Viper is a _single_-seated fighter," Dietra murmured. "Right?"

Apollo smiled slightly, not letting his concentration waver. A moment later he unleashed a stream of laser fire on the enemy. The Raider broke right, then dived, screaming towards the American landmark like a bat out of Hell, salvos streaking across the sky. Apollo followed her down, once again lining her up optically, and unleashing his own lasers.

"_C'mon_ . . ." Baker whispered.

Suddenly, the Raider pulled up sharply, obtaining maximum G's that no human could match as she shot upward to the sun, putting distance between them. Apollo let out a guttural growl of displeasure, following at a less severe incline, while Baker snapped his head backwards towards Liberty Island and the great lady, herself.

_"__They're gaining altitude and running for space!__"_they heard over the comm line from one of the Lightning pilots.

It wasn't Cylon fighter tactics, it was an all-encompassing order to their forces.

"Triton Squadron, let's go finish them off!" Apollo ordered.

Baker turned his eyes front, only to abruptly see a burst of light impacting the Cylon. The Raider's left wing exploded. The alien machine flipped over and began to tumble toward the water, trailing fire.

"Good shot, Apollo!" shouted Baker.

"Wasn't me," replied the colonel. "It came from . . ." He paused as the remains of the Cylon broke apart. He shrugged then, listening in on the other channel. He shook his head in confusion, putting it on Unicom so Baker could hear it. When he did, the old astronaut began to laugh.

"_Nice_ shooting!" He grinned, as he explained it to the Colonials.

Down in the harbour, the U.S.S. _New York _was in for a final celebration before her decommissioning. The San Antonio class ship had had a front row seat for all the recent mayhem. Unable and unwilling to just sit idly by, her skipper had opted to throw the ship into the fight. Radar and all "modern" defensive systems blinded by the Cylon EMPs, they had fallen back on more antiquated measures. When the Raider had flown overhead, she had fired a heat-seeking missile from the ship's defensive arsenal. Unaffected by the entire scanner blinding, the relatively primitive weapon screamed across the water to slam into the Raider. The Cylon, evading fire from Apollo's Hybrid, flew right into the oncoming ordnance.

Cheers went up from the _New York_'s crew as flaming pieces of the alien fighter rained down across Staten Island, perhaps fittingly, some of it at the old Fresh Kills Landfill.

"Along with the rest of the garbage," muttered Baker. "_New York_, thanks for the assist," he said over the radio.

"Wouldn't have missed it," replied the voice from the old Navy ship.

Baker nodded to himself as he settled back in his seat, his final mental image of the Statue of Liberty burnt into his brain as they headed for orbit. Diagonally lengthwise, from right shoulder to hip, a scorch mark had been charred into the grand lady's copper robes. As they had for over two hundred years, her stern, silent features endured as they watched over the United States. Like freedom and liberty, she would be with them as long as there was an American—indeed a human—still standing.

xxxxx

Jess nodded at Carter on the flight deck of the _Venture, _and he gave her the thumbs up in return. They'd done what they'd set out to do. The _Venture_, _Unity_ and _Quest_ were all in low-Earth orbit over the western hemisphere acting as a communications conduit for the world defences while Cylon EMP pulses continued to intermittently hammer their remaining satellites and ground-based stations. No longer were the European or Asian Defence Commands in the dark as to what was going on in North America. Chiefs of Staffs the world over were in contact, coordinating defences as best they could, now with the approval and blessings of the United Nations Security Council. Meanwhile, their Air Forces seemed to be doing themselves proud by all reports, although the engagements hadn't been without their professional or civilian casualties. New York, Los Angeles and Chicago had all sustained moderate damage and significant deaths from Cylon strafing runs. However, when compared to the incinerated Mexico City and Las Vegas, it was minor in the overall picture, providing a person could shut off all emotion and try to maintain an objective viewpoint.

_Objective, hell! _Jess told herself, as vivid images of chaos and confusion across North America that she had witnessed replayed themselves in her mind. Columns of smoke trailing into the sky, terrified survivors pleading for help, the devastated wastelands that used to be Las Vegas and Mexico City . . . She felt a tight knot in the pit of her stomach.

_Beep!_

Jess winced. "Beeps", in general, were bad news. "What is it?"

"The good news is that the Cylons seem to be leaving the US en masse," Trent replied from the co-pilot's seat. "I'm getting reports from LA and Chicago, confirming it. Surviving Cylon fighter craft are starting to disengage."

"And?"

"The bad news is that one of those task forces is headed straight for us."

"ETA?"

"They're clearing the atmosphere now. They should intersect our position in . . . two minutes."

"Can we run?" Jess asked Carter, after a long moment.

"Not fast enough. Those babies are hauling some major ass. They might be slow in atmospheric flight, but they sure make up for it in space."

"Suggestions?"

"Close our eyes and hope like hell they don't see us."

"Very funny." Only, it wasn't. He was telling her they really had no recourse.

Carter smiled grimly. "Then we make a break for it, and run anyway." He altered course, engaging the engines.

xxxxx

"Hurry! Get in!" Snow White screamed, grabbing a fistful of Starbuck's flight suit and pulling with all her strength as concrete rained down on him outside the rig.

She wasn't just another pretty face.

He dived in through the window as Snow White pulled him on top of her across the seat. His face ended up nestled between her ample assets, but it probably wasn't the right time to dwell on that . . .

"Stay down!" he hollered as the rig groaned loudly. It was battered with falling pieces of debris, the windshield cracking and splintering under impact. The rig shuddered and then tipped even more, as a shower of glass suddenly rained down on them. The car deck above was exerting more pressure on the vehicle. He looked anxiously upward at the sound of heavily stressed, bending metal, wondering if the steel would hold or if it would be crushed like a house of cards.

"Oh, dear God . . ." Snow White whimpered from beneath him. "I don't wanna die!"

"That makes two of us," he replied, holding his breath as the racket of falling concrete died down around them. The rig groaned horribly again. Ten to one, they didn't have a lot of time. He pushed himself upward so he could look in her eyes. Glass from his back fell to the floor. "Snow White, you need to trust me. We have to get out of here. That upper deck is either going to crush your rig with us in it, or the bridge is going to totally collapse."

She sucked in a ragged breath, and then licked dry lips, her eyes seeming to search his for a long moment. It was the moment when he found out if her character could overcome her fear. Then: "Stop sugar coating it, Starbuck. Tell it like it is, for Christ's sake."

He smiled. "That's the spirit." He nodded encouragingly at her, as he tried to sit up in the cramped space to untie the line around his waist. There were limited places to put his hands, after all. He tied a large knot in the end of the rope, testing it. "We're going to use the rope to repel, then we'll swing out into a wide arc and jump . . ."

"_Jump_?" Her eyes just about popped out of her head and she shook her head vehemently from side to side. Suddenly she looked yahrens younger than he had originally placed her. "But I can't . . ."

"Swim, yeah, I know," he replied calmly. "Remember, you have the vest. It'll automatically inflate when you hit the water, and if by whatever chance it doesn't, it has a manual inflate cord right here." He showed her. "Just pull it. You're going to get out of this, Snow White. I give you my word as a warrior."

She was white as snow. "A w-warrior? I thought you were US Air Force."

"No, I'm a Colonial Warrior," he told her.

"Oh my God, you're _that_ Starbuck! That explains your accent!" Her eyes opened even wider, if that was possible. "I heard parts of your speech at the UN!"

The news heralded the appearance of an F-35 far off to his right. It almost looked like it was lined up to pass under the bridge, which would be suicidal. At the last moment, it started to climb overhead, the sound of its engine retreating. Starbuck doubted it had spotted them.

"The one and only. Now, there's a boat down there. That's our ticket to shore, Snow White. I promise you, we won't be in the water long."

"What if the bridge collapses on top of us?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"Then I'll have been wrong, but at least we'll have tried," he reasoned, searching her eyes. "I long ago told myself that I would never go down without trying. I've never given up." He nodded at her. "_Never_ give up, Snow White. Whatever you do, don't let life burst your bubble."

"'Don't let life burst your bubble'. Is that your credo?" she asked, shaking her head in bemusement.

"Ever since I read it on a Bubba-Yum wrapper when I was eight."

"Ohh," she grimaced, a smile playing on her lips as he began climbing through the front window out onto the hood. He brushed aside the remaining jagged pieces of glass with the rope. "That was _bad_, Starbuck."

"Just my luck, she's a critic," he replied lightly, pausing as she passed him through a pair of utility gloves from the seat.

"Here take these. You're going to need them."

"Thanks."

Moments later, he had donned the gloves and wrapped the rope around the metal of windshield frame a couple of times to secure it once again. He reached a hand through the broken window, offering her a hand up. She looked at him almost strangely before taking it. "Watch the glass," he warned her.

He helped her onto the hood, and then he shimmied forward on his astrum, hanging onto the rope to stop gravity from propelling him forward, while he threw the knotted end over the edge. "We're going to have to repel," he told her as she eased herself slowly forward. "Then start swinging when we reach the end of our rope."

"That might be sooner than you think," Snow White quipped, sliding cautiously in behind him, her thighs pressed snugly against his hips. "So, I take it we try to clear the bridge when we jump."

"Exactly," he replied. "Or at least get a good start."

"Okay. How do we climb down?"

The truck shuddered again, and the metal behind them creaked under duress.

"Quickly," he replied. "It's called 'fast roping'. I want you to hang on to me as tightly as you can, and don't let go."

"That I can do."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

He could feel her breasts pressing against him from behind as she moved in closer, her arms clinging to his chest and her legs looping around his waist. He drew a deep breath, trying to keep his mind on the job, then shimmied forward some more until he was resting on the end of the hood staring down at the metrons of empty air in front of him. That cooled his turbos. Hands, knees and feet all had to squeeze the rope simultaneously to slow his descent. It was almost like being back at the Academy, except his pack was a beautiful woman, and if he lost control they'd drop like a stone into cold ocean water instead of on the hard ground. At this height, they _might_ survive; but from the end of the rope they'd have a far better chance. Then there was the matter of the bridge that looked like it would collapse on top of them any centon. Even Sergeant Brand at the Academy hadn't thought of _that_ complication . . .

She suddenly kissed him on the cheek, like Miri had so long ago. "For luck," she said.

"Who needs luck?" he smiled at her confidently, while his stomach flipped at what he was about to attempt. "You've got me, after all."

He turned to start his descent, a micron later their combined weight driving them downward just a little too quickly, as his hands burned through the utility gloves. Above them, the air filled with a screeching, grating sound that echoed over the water and right through his soul. There was another explosion above. More glass and asphalt rained down on them. The rope swung sharply to the right and he looked upward in horror as his feet hit the knotted end, and then slid right past it. He clung desperately to the rope, refusing to lose his grip, as the knot passed his knees and then hit his hands, jerking his arms upward. Snow White screamed as they came to a sudden stop, his arms feeling like they'd been yanked from their sockets as they started swinging back under the bridge. Above them, the rig shifted suddenly, pitching forward. The concrete keeping it in place crumbled around it, raining down on them.

It was all going to come down on top of them!


	55. Chapter Twenty: Part One

Chapter Twenty

It happened so damned fast, and the chaos around him was so distracting that Starbuck didn't even see it coming. One centon he and Snow White were swinging the wrong way towards certain death, and the next an F-35 roared by, risking life, limb and fuselage by passing under the unstable bridge. The rope Starbuck was holding jerked tightly in the opposite direction—obviously snagged by something on the airplane—and they were suddenly swinging out from beneath the bridge, clear of the falling debris. Snow White was screaming with a sustained intensity that pierced his eardrums like lasers, as their arc widened until he figured they could go no further.

Then the rope snapped under the tension, the torque too much.

They plummeted towards the river; an instant later the ice cold water swallowed him alive. The extreme temperature shift shocked his system like a physical jolt, forcing him to expel a breath. Both head and chest filled with a painful pressure as he cut through the frigid depths, so recently the watery crypt for countless other victims of the Cylon attack. Something cold and solid brushed against him, and his vivid imagination kicked in, offering up all kinds of disagreeable possibilities. He began clawing his way back desperately towards the surface, determined to escape the horrors below, real or imagined.

Finally, he broke the surface, sucking a gratifying breath into his hungry lungs. He tossed his head, blinking the water and hair out of his eyes, then looked up in horror. The crumbling suspension bridge loomed above him, chunks the size of landrams still plunging into the river, Snow White's rig already gone. An entire car deck was ripping away from its last remaining supports, at any micron poised to crash into the water! This was all wrong! He was _way_ too close to the bridge and closing in on it rapidly! Unbeknownst to him, there was one Hades of a current in this river, and it was dragging him back into danger!

xxxxx

"They're all around us!" Carter yelled as a squadron of Cylon Raiders swarmed the _Venture_ on their return trip to the _Ravager_. As expected, outrunning the enemy fighters had been impossible for the _Guardian_ Series space shuttle. It was like a medieval ox-cart versus a Formula One racer.

"Looking on the bright side, they haven't blown us up," Jess inserted, her bravado forced.

"Yet," Trent added.

"They blew Mexico City and Las Vegas right off the National Geographic, but for some reason have taken a liking to _us_. That doesn't make any bloody sense," Carter opined tensely, frowning as a laser blast to their right reined in his attempt to evade their careful herding.

"Here's to the nonsensical," Trent raised an imaginary glass.

"May it live to confuse us another day," Jess added, sucking in a breath as the Cylon Base Ship came into view. It was massive! More so than she had actually imagined. Like a city in space!

"Jess," Carter pointed.

She leaned forward, seeing an identical ship. Her father's. "Holy . . . Let's try to raise the _Endeavour_."

xxxxx

"Energize!" Dayton ordered, looking at his chrono. He glanced at Cassiopeia and Rhiamon, both standing by in the Control Centre. They looked about as grim as he felt.

A micron later shimmering particles of light united to form shapes, gradually materializing into their missing Colonial Warriors. Ensign Acastus was applying pressure to Cadet Xenia's abdomen; however, her blood was soaking through the thick field dressing as well as the fabric of her tunic, and the woman looked waxy grey and dazed. The others were crowded around, some standing, others kneeling. Superficially, the rest appeared unharmed.

"I need IV access!" Cassiopeia immediately hollered to Rhiamon as soon as the figures had solidified, her biomonitor already in hand. "Get her on the hoverstretcher and elevate her legs!" she ordered the cadets as she began her assessment. "Okay, stay with me, Cadet . . .!"

"Xenia," Acastus supplied.

"Xenia, can you speak?" Cassie asked.

"Ahhh . . ." the other managed to groan.

"The girl's doing her own bloodletting," the former Empyrean healer replied, pulling equipment out of her medical kit and placing a life mask on the injured warrior, before wrapping a tourniquet around her arm.

"Where's Ensign Luana?" Dorado asked.

"She went back for her ship, Captain," Ensign Trevanian replied, not looking up from his injured comrade.

"She did _what_?" Dayton barked, his gaze lingering on the fallen cadet. He didn't like the look of her. Cassiopeia and the others would have their hands full.

"She wasn't supposed to, Sir?" Acastus asked as they fought to stabilize his squadron mate. "She just took off like a vesperillon out of Hades Hole, armed to the teeth."

"She was supposed to beam here so we could fully engage the _Ravager_!" Dayton snapped, looking at Dorado. "Damn . . .son of a . . ."

"If that Wraith actually passed through the hull of a Cylon Ship, it might just be worth saving, Commander," Dorado suggested.

"Right now, I'm more concerned with _this_ battle than the next one, Dorado!" barked Dayton. "Won't _be_ another one if we screw up _this_ one!"

"Understood, sir."

"But you're right." Dayton added grudgingly, deflating slightly. "If somehow the Cylons survive this, we can't let them take that kind of tech back to Cylon."

"I know, sir." Dorado nodded.

"Commander, I'm picking up a small force of Cylon Raiders on the scanner!" Sagaris said.

"Sir, I'm picking up a message, but it's breaking up," Pierus reported, his hand to his headset.

"Are any of those Raiders our Hybrids, Sagaris?" Dayton asked.

"I'm reading Phoenix Squadron identity codes, sir. It looks like they're chasing them!"

"Pierus, put that message on Unicom!" Dayton ordered.

". . .is . . . ayton . . . _Venture_ . . . trouble . . .Cylons . . .request assistance . . ." It was a woman's voice, and damned if just about every instinct in Mark Dayton's body screamed out that it belonged to his daughter. But the only time he'd heard the voice of Jessica since leaving Earth was on Planet 'P' when they had seen the plea for help that the _Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency_ of Earth had left for them, care of John the ever-cryptic Ship of Lights being. Dayton glanced over at Cassie, her features tense as she battled against time to stabilize Cadet Xenia. Trevanian and Acastus were helping out, beginning to push the stretcher towards the Life Station as the med techs worked on their patient.

_Right now would be a really good time for you to put in an appearance, Ama. Or God-Almighty himself._

"Paddy?"

"Yeah. Identical voice, Mark. I'd stake my next drink on it."

"I agree," Porter added.

Dayton crossed to the scanner, looking at the familiar sea of triangles that indicated Cylon Raiders. "Where the hell is she?"

"Earlier we scanned a couple unidentified craft in low Earth orbit, Commander. She must have been aboard one of them."

"The Cylons overran them on their way back here to come to the aid of the _Harrower_," Dorado concluded.

"Can you locate any human biosigns there, Sagaris?" asked Dayton, indicating the spot with a finger on the screen.

"Yes," said the other, nose to scope. He shook his head. "I'm picking up a minor energy flux reading on one bio-band. But in all this EM soup . . . I can't localize it."

"But it's definitely there?" pressed Dayton, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the monitor.

"Yes, but surrounded by Cylons, it's like trying to spot a piscon through muddy water."

"Sir, if they destroyed the shuttle, we'd have detected the explosion," offered Dorado. "She's still alive."

"So our little video deception to get those Raiders away from Earth ended up in my daughter's ship being engulfed by Cylons," Dayton said, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to figure out what to do next. Right now, he felt like when he was little, and his cousin had shoved him down the basement stairs. No clear idea of what was happening, no clear vision of what lay ahead. "Dorado?"

"Hostages, Commander. It's seldom that Cylons take them, but when they feel it strengthens their position somehow . . ."

"Damn!" Dayton muttered. "Is Rooke close enough to intercede?"

"No, sir. Phoenix Squadron is gaining, but not fast enough."

"Tell them to floor it, turbines be damned!"

"Sir."

"And send an encrypted transmission to Luana," Dayton ordered. "First bust her back down to Sub-Ensign Bargain Basement Level for disobeying orders, then tell her . . ."

xxxxx

What was once lush, green and teaming with life was now a blackened, vacuous wasteland. There wasn't even a single recognizable landmark to orient Ama back to the river and caves that once were the habitat for her beloved Empyreans. Around her was hollowness and emptiness, an aching desolation, death, where once was life. There was nothing even left of the spirits of her people, those souls who had chosen to stay behind when the bulk of the Empyreans had joined the Colonial Fleet. It was as if some dark entity had sucked all life, all vibrancy, all energy from this forsaken place.

She smiled humourlessly, the irony of it all not escaping her, the Great Powers' lesson as plain as the scarred and deformed mutilation that had once been her home. Using the Oculus and her newly developed powers, it took little to discern that the Cylons had followed the Colonials here, that it was the Edict of Extermination that had wiped old friends off of the face of humanity. The Cylons had done that which the Cylons always do, and unleashed an ineluctable, overwhelming wave of death upon her ancestral home. The cursed machines still hunted the Fleet, as much as Adama and most of the Council of Twelve had hoped otherwise.

Yet, she sensed her father's hand in this too. Had Iblis finally sought revenge on her people for her mother's part in "betraying" him to the Great Powers generations ago? The Cylons were the Evil One's pawns, after all.

She loosed the bonds of her consciousness a bit further, while a spark of energy began to draw near, as conspicuous as a shimmering light in a sea of bleakness. Once, she wouldn't have detected it this early. Now, however, her powers had evolved to warn her of these presences . . . or any. She sniffed when she realized they had _both_ come. Apparently, they were teaming up on her.

"We're not here to bully you, Ama," John said as his familiar form materialized in front of her.

"Well, let's not rule it out completely," Baltar added with a faint smile, appearing beside the other Ship of Lights being.

For a change, she had nothing to say in return. No riposte, none of what Paddy-Ryan called her "one-liners". Surprisingly, she had a strong desire to seek out Chameleon, and to bury herself in his arms, hiding for as long as it took to find herself once again. Grief, however, was a luxury. Time was her enemy. Oh, how she suddenly longed to be a simple Empyrean necromancer once again, as she had been when she and the conman had first met. It had been a long time since she'd spared a thought for Starbuck's father.

"It's been a long time since you spared a thought for _Starbuck_," John reproved her.

"_You_ may believe that to be true," she replied quietly. "Starbuck has no need to mollycoddled, after all. He does just fine without me intervening . . . as long as Iblis is likewise out of the range of influence."

"Then this flexing of your celestial powers is all part of a greater plan to keep away and then overcome Count Iblis?" Baltar asked, glancing at John in relief.

"I cannot."

"You cannot overcome him?" Baltar asked, furrowing his brow. He looked shaken.

"Or you _chose_ not to?" John added. "Whether it was the Oculus or the entity that fortified you, the power you now wield, Ama, is nothing like any of _us_have ever witnessed before. The Elders believe that you could actually destroy Iblis."

"Only if I then take his place, John, maintaining the balance of the universe. Isn't that how the scheme of things works? Hmm? I told you once already. What was it my father said? Oh, yes. 'Without darkness, the light would go unprized; without evil, goodness would have no meaning.'" She sighed, turning away from them. "Is that what the Great Powers wish? A change of adversary? Is Count Iblis beginning to bore them?"

There was a conspicuous silence behind her as they weighed her words.

"Are you certain about this, Ama?" Baltar asked her. "Are you certain of the truth in _any_ of Iblis' words?"

She turned, holding out the Oculus. A golden spark of energy followed the pathway of threads that appeared to weave their way over the sphere, going on eternally. "I'm not fool enough to accept Iblis' word. Take it, Baltar." She looked up from the mysterious orb and met the Count's eyes. "See for yourself."

The former betrayer of mankind reached out instinctively, a gleam in his eyes and, for an instant, an ugly yearning on his features. Abruptly, he startled, pulling his hand back as if stung, curling it into a fist. "I . . . I don't think I have the fortitude . . .I _know_ I do not."

Ama snorted derisively, turning to the other, offering it to him in kind. "John? What say you? Learn _all_ there is to learn, know _all_ there is to know. See beyond doubt what truth _really_ is." Her tone of voice rose dramatically, like a peddler selling her wares.

The Being of Light shook his head decisively, his expression impassive. "I am not the Chosen One, Ama. It is not left to me to be the Keeper."

"No, that was Eirys," Ama replied, looking at Baltar. He winced, obviously reliving Caradoc's betrayal and his own inability to defend the Angylion sorceress. "Shall I return it to _her_, Baltar?"

"Eirys is gone, Ama," Baltar said, eyes downcast before flashing in anger at her. "Do not taunt me so!"

Ama smiled. "How very narrow-minded of you, Baltar. Eirys may be beyond the reach of even the Great Powers, who would refuse to interfere in their usual ineffectual way, but she is not beyond _my_ reach. Like Count Iblis before her, she merely exists in another realm beyond our own." She hefted the Oculus in her hand. "The Oculus is the key to her liberation. That, and the _will_ to release her."

"She _lives_?" Baltar whispered.

"In a manner of speaking," Ama replied in amusement.

"Do not toy with me, woman!" Baltar snarled. "Do not prattle like some over-clever Protector! Speak plainly, if you can!"

Ama cackled. "Oh, I like it when you get feisty, Baltar! Honestly, you were so much more fun as an flesh-bound being."

"What do you mean 'in a manner of speaking', Witch? Does she live or not?" Baltar demanded, his back ramrod straight, and his teeth gritted.

"Take it and find out for yourself, Baltar," Ama tempted him with the orb. "Take it."

xxxxx

"_Starbuck_!" the desperate shriek echoed across the water.

"Here!" he answered, while the encroaching roar of an Earth aircraft filled his ears and the river's current continued to propel him towards the collapsing bridge.

Snow White's terrified voice was coming from off to his left where her blonde head bobbed up and down in the river. A quick look around showed him that the boat was way out of reach, choosing somewhat unfortunately to keep a safe distance. By the looks of things, those aboard were scanning this adventure as it unfolded. Lords, how he'd love to get his hands on that vid-cam so he could wrap its tripod around the camera man's neck a time or three. _More on that later. Back to you, Bucko_ . . .

Above and on approach from his right, he could see the now familiar lines of the Lightning aircraft using its vertical lift system to hover nearby, the downward thrust creating enormous swells that pushed him towards Snow White, but also towards the bridge. At this point he had mixed feelings, realizing the pilot's potentially suicidal run to shift the direction of the swing that their rope had taken had saved their lives, but right now—eyeballs high in turbulent water—he was having less than friendly thoughts about the guy. Maybe the pilot had something in mind that he wasn't catching on to. He sure as heck hoped so, since he was rapidly running out of super brilliant or even dubiously sketchy ideas of his own. Urgently, he struck out for Snow White, cutting through the water at a pace he knew he couldn't keep up for long, closing the distance between them. _Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe_. He was being tossed around like a child's ball in a game of _Porcine In The Middle_. While he considered himself a fairly strong swimmer, he hadn't exactly won any titles for his abilities back at the Academy, unless you included "least likely to show up". Finally, his hand grasped the life preserver keeping Snow White afloat. He gulped in deep breaths as his burning chest heaved from his latest exertions.

"_Starbuck_!" Snow White shrieked again, turning and clawing at him in terror.

She seemed to be trying to climb atop of him, which at another time or place might have been a pleasant diversion—if he wasn't sealed, that is. She pushed him under in her panic, and he struggled against her thrashing limbs as he surfaced again, grabbing the life vest with both hands and pulling her towards him.

"Stop it! You're going to be alright!" he yelled at her

"But I . . ."

"You'll drown us both if you don't calm down!"

There was a rumble and tortuous groan above. Together they stared upwards in stark terror as more gigantic chunks of debris hurtled downward, landing only twenty metrons from them, metal shrieking as it ripped like fabric. More waves broke, this time the sudden swells pushing them back the way they had come. It was a brief reprieve. A moment later they drifted back towards the bridge. The waves from the F-35 had receded a little, and a glance over at the aircraft revealed it had gained some altitude and was still climbing. Thankfully, the pilot seemed to have realized the detrimental effect he was causing as he watched over them.

Starbuck tightened his grip on the life preserver, using one arm and kicking for all he was worth to try to propel them against the current. Desperation was his ally as adrenaline pumped through his exhausted limbs, forcing them to function. It was like flogging a dead equine and he knew it. He would never beat the current, but he refused to concede. He'd keep fighting with his last breath, struggling until the end . . .

"Starbuck!" Snow White cried.

The Lightning was far above them now, dangling its decoy and towline like a rope ladder. The same decoy system that had snagged him earlier from another strike fighter was now dangling tantalisingly above him, promising him a tow. It was an inspired idea! He only had to hold out long enough . . .

"Please, Starbuck. You can do it!" Snow White pleaded with him.

His chest was burning; his legs felt like he was wearing tylinium boots; if he took one more drink of New York water he was going to toss the big apple. He chanced another look over his shoulder, almost crying out in relief as the decoy dropped into the water almost on top of them, sinking immediately. He only had to reach out and grab the line. He dived towards it, his hand clenching the heavy cable as he pulled them in tight.

"Hang on, Snow White!" he yelled, feeling her arms snake around him. He waved furiously upward . . .

As the Brooklyn Bridge began to collapse above them.


	56. Chapter Twenty: Part Two

Luana raced along the smoke-filled corridors of the _Ravager_, her weapons blazing a path through any troop of centurions foolish enough to get in her way. Behind her she left a smouldering trail of destruction, and after the last couple of days, dang, but it felt good to do some damage. Adrenaline coursed through her body, singing the warrior's siren song in her brain-stem, and she was once again the Empyrean huntress of yester-yahren, confident in her skills and abilities, tenacious and daring. If only Lia could be there at her side . . .

It was yahrens of survival instinct, honed in wood and valley, that made her drop and roll, barely evading the searing heat of laser fire. She came up firing, cutting down two more Cylons, blowing the top of the head off of one, and drilling the other dead centre in the chest. She didn't skip a beat, as both adversaries fell, belching sparks, but barrelled ahead over their twitching and smoking forms, both of her weapons still blazing. A moment later she holstered one laser to take the ladderwell two steps at a time, pausing at the top of the Central Core for only a moment to survey the landing bay.

It was empty.

She scampered out of the hatch, heading straight for their tylinium storage tanks. On one after another she planted the solenite charges, smirking as she imagined the explosion taking out this bay and everything in it. It would make a perfect distraction as she engaged her turbos and escaped. Hopefully, it would also assuage Commander Dayton's anger somewhat, since she had decided to use a little initiative to come back for her Wraith.

Her keen eye detected a ripple in her vision, even as she felt the hair on the nape of her neck rise in reaction to the Espridian ship's invisibility force field. Feeling her way, she scaled the ship, activating the canopy and waiting as it slid open. She climbed in, taking a last look around as she pulled on her helmet and closed the canopy. There was a message waiting for her from the _Endeavour_.

Microns later she fired up the Wraith, still in full ECM, and nosed her forward through the hull of the Base Ship. Full electronic countermeasures or not, it just wasn't a nice feeling to have a Cylon Base Ship looming over you, knowing that with just one blast from its mighty batteries, she'd be incinerated. She could feel a shiver run down her spine as she accelerated away from the enemy ship. Checking her scanners, Luana verified the position of the Raiders that had engulfed the Earth shuttle so completely she could only identify it on scanner. They were herding it towards the _Ravager_ with a squadron of Colonial Hybrids hot on their ion trail.

"_Makes me wish we had loaded this crate with explosives so we could at least put a hole in the side of that barge_!" The languaphone rendered the translation from the Earth pilot perfectly.

"_Commander, we're not going to catch them in time!_" The tense voice was Rooke's.

Timing was as critical as remaining incognito. If she dropped her ECM too soon, she'd be setting herself up as a target. If she waited too long, she'd blow the opportunity and this mission. She took a deep breath, deactivating her ECM as she simultaneously activated her weapons system. If she showed herself, she would a bleed off some of their forces . . .

_Lords, you guys are so predictable!_ She grinned, as the enemy fighters did precisely that.

_Three, two, one_ . . . She lined up her first target and fired, peeling off to the right to unleash the Dynamo on another. Beneath a sudden barrage of fire, the Cylon task force split down the middle, the Earth shuttle suddenly appearing from somewhere in the middle, before being eclipsed again when they closed formation.

"_Phoenix Squadron, looks like we're getting some help! Lu, good to see you_!" Rooke cheered.

"Blink and you'll miss me," she returned, rolling the Wraith to evade Cylon lasers, before blasting another Raider with the Dynamo and cutting a path through their ranks once again. Three Cylons were now floating dead in space, only inertia carrying them forward. "I'm leaving a bit of a mess in my wake, boys, hope you don't mind cleaning up after me."

"_Clean up after the princess? Lords, it makes a guy feel downright domesticated!_" Jolly's voice came over the comm.

"_Hey! Triton Squadron is joining the party_!" Rooke declared, hearing the lieutenant's voice. "_Colonel_?"

"_Here, Lieutenant_!" Apollo replied. "Report!"

"_Commander Dayton's daughter is in that shuttle, sir_!"

"_So what are we waiting for_?"

xxxxx

"By-your-command."

"Yes, Centurion?"

"Our-squadron-is-under-attack," a centurion reported on the _Ravager_. A blip on the scanner had appeared without a trace to open fire on their task force. Curiously, all the Cylon ships had lost power, and were impotently adrift in space.

"Remind me to reprogram in your priority codes, Centurion," Syphax ordered, almost sighing, as the ship trembled under the force of internal explosions in Gamma Bay. "Damage report!"

"By-your-command. Decks-one-two-three-four-five-six . . ."

"Decks one through _which_, Centurion?" Syphax asked in exasperation. He'd had trouble with some of these older rebuilds for the last dozen yahrens. Centurions had been built for dominance and superiority in numbers. Battle-chassis, armour, and offensive/defensive subsystems, all were first rate. Their "higher" processes, well, were certainly not going to win any awards for longevity, it seemed. As a result, he'd been plagued the last few yahrens with one problem after another; during a recent maintenance sweep, for example, he'd discovered, despite their combat capabilities, their power cells were limited. In fact, they were beginning to give out, and before many more yahrens, they would be out of material to fabricate more.

"Seven, Commander."

"Yes? One through seven! What about them?"

"Fires-are-out-of-control-in-alpha-beta-and-gamma-sections. Landing-Bay-Alpha-is-also-on-fire. Boraton-supply-is-exhausted-except-in-alpha-section. Shields-are-at-ten-percent. Remaining-mega-pulsar-is-at-five-percent."

"What is the _good_ news?"

"That-was-the-good-news."

"Oh, felgercarb."

"What-are-your-orders, Commander?"

_Report to the nearest recycling facility, and let me crush you into little tiny bits? Open up, so I can rip your worn-out and malfunctioning circuits to shreds, and dance on your faceplate?_

"Put more distance between ourselves and the planet, Centurion. Beyond the range of all Earth weaponry. Hail our sister ship once more. And try and send out a signal towards Cylon space, relaying our situation."

"By-your-command."

"Also, evacuate all personnel from the damaged sections, starting with Alpha Bay, and open them to vacuum. That will stop the fire, Centurion."

"Does-not-compute."

"What does not compute?"

"How-opening-personnel-up-to-vacuum-will-stop-the-fire . . ."

"Not the _personnel_, the damaged sections! Open them to vacuum! Then expedite repairs with all speed."

"By-your-command."

"After you have _closed_ the sections to the vacuum of space again," Syphax added after a moment.

"By-your-command."

"Excellent."

"Commander."

"What is it, Centurion?"

"You-ordered-me-to-remind-you-to-reprogram-my-priority-codes, Commander."

"Oh, felgercarb!"

xxxxx

Baltar hesitated for a long moment, his eyes staring into Ama's, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around the Oculus to not only see the truth of which Ama spoke, but to be reunited with his deceased wife, Eirys. Instinctively he knew that if Ama—an Empyrean spiritual leader—could be tainted by the dark powers of the orb, that he would quickly find himself thrust back onto the side of evil, his path to redemption abandoned in his lust to fulfil his desires and embrace unspeakable power.

He took a physical step back from her, shaking his head curtly. He would not take her place. He _could_ not.

"Do you truly think that if one of us relieves you of the burden of that responsibility, that all will return to the way it was before, Ama?" John asked her, stepping between the quivering Baltar and Iblis' spawn. "Do you truly believe you can go back?"

"Who said anything about going _back_?" Ama asked. "You presume too much, John. I'm only offering Baltar a chance to be reunited with Eirys. Or doesn't that suit your mighty plans?"

"I cannot wield its power, Ama. It would devour any goodness left in me; I would be lost," Baltar admitted.

"You are wise, Baltar," John said.

"And you passed the test that I failed," Ama said.

"You did not fail, Ama," John told her. "If you failed, you would be conspiring with Count Iblis now, not standing here with us."

"Bully for me," she shrugged, looking at Baltar. "Well, Baltar? Do you want your wife back or not?"

"And should you return Eirys to me, what do you desire in return, Ama," Baltar asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Ah, Baltar! Ever the Maker of Deals!"

"Ama . . ."

She grinned. "Only that she resume her rightful duty as Keeper of the Oculus."

"You would surrender it? Truly?" Baltar asked, still doubting her words.

She didn't hesitate. "Gladly. You have my word." She stood quietly for a long moment, looking from the Oculus out over the wasteland before them. "For if I do not, the balance of the universe will once again be shifted inexorably towards evil, resulting in another cataclysm that will this time completely destroy mankind on Earth, long before Adama's Fleet arrives there." She sighed as she gazed around her once beloved Empyrean world. "I imagine it will look a lot like this."

"But I thought stopping the Cylons on Earth would counteract Iblis' plan," Baltar asked. "Is that not why we gave the Colonials the Espridian technology to traverse time and space?"

"Baltar, you of all people should know that you need to think _beyond_ the next engagement," Ama reminded him.

"Iblis has been strategizing thus for millennia," John said.

"And it would not be the first time he schemed to destroy a world of mankind," Ama told them.

"Kobol," Baltar said. Despite his "elevated" status, he winced at the memory. "And more recently, the Twelve Colonies."

"Yes. And millennia ago his influence on the Thirteenth Tribe on Earth led to them warring amongst each other, and so angered the Mightiest of Powers that the Kobollians' newest empires of Atlantis, Mu, and their budding cities on Mars and Phobos were destroyed, almost entirely wiped from history, save for ambiguous remnants and clues. Mankind understood it and recorded it as a worldwide deluge, an act of divine retribution. All record of Kobollian military involvement has been forgotten."

"But how?" asked Baltar. "Our own Colonial history goes back to Kobol, the mother world of mankind's existence. Adama's family are said to be direct descendants of the first man in Eden. Indeed, in the Ancient High Tongue of the Kobollian priesthood, _Adama_ means 'first man'. If we were so studious about recording and relating our history in the _Book of the Word_ and other documents so that our history was not lost, why was it so different on Earth?"

"Remember, Baltar, much of our early Kobollian history is believed to be mythical," Ama reminded him. "On Earth it was even worse. Humans have a destructive nature. Many libraries and artefacts containing the historical documentation and evidence of transplanted Kobollian civilizations were destroyed during war and invasions."

"Very true," John agreed. "*On Earth, only a few of Homer's poems survived the destruction of his works by the Greek tyrant Peisistratus in Athens. Nothing survived the destruction of the Egyptian library in the Temple of Ptah in Memphis. Likewise, an estimated two hundred thousand volumes of priceless works disappeared with the destruction of the library of Pergamum in Asia Minor. When the Romans levelled the city of Carthage, they destroyed a library said to have contained more than five hundred thousand volumes. Then came Julius Caesar, whose war against Egypt resulted in the loss of the great library at Alexandria, considered the greatest collection of books in all of Earth's antiquity. European libraries also suffered under the Romans and later from zealous Christians. Between the sacking of Constantinople and the Spanish Inquisition, an inestimable number of ancient works were irretrievably lost. Collections in Asia fared little better, as Chinese emperor Tsin Shi Hwang-ti ordered wholesale book burning in 213 BC.* None now remain who can read the ancient _rongo-rongo _of Easter Island. All but a handful of Mayan codices are gone forever. Countless ancient Sumerian texts are forever lost. You have no idea what lies at the bottom of the Black Sea, or other scattered places beneath Earth's oceans." He sighed. "All that remains of the Kobollians' earliest recorded yahrens in Earth's solar system are a few data crystals recovered recently on Mars, along with a broken holo-reader."

Baltar stared at him in disbelief.

"Now do you understand how history can be so easily erased, Baltar? How Iblis can so easily leave his mark?" Ama asked the other. "I confess that I thought I could control the Oculus, that _I_ could be its master, but instead it strived to control _me_. It makes me hunger for a power that I never before aspired to wield." She met John's steady gaze. "I admit—rather reluctantly, I might add—that I now realize that it _must_ be returned to its Keeper. Iblis must not seize its power for himself, for he would surely destroy mankind in retribution for my perceived betrayal."

"Ama, the Great Powers will not approve of you releasing Eirys," John warned her.

"Then let's not ask them, Dear Heart," Ama returned with a saucy grin, raising the Oculus in one hand, as she lightly rested her other on her Empyrean talisman. "Now what was that incantation Paddy-Ryan taught me? Oh, yes. I remember now. _Red Rover, Red Rover, I call Eirys over_!" Her voice seemed to echo from on high.

The heavens thundered and the once-Empyrean soil quivered beneath their feet. Lightning flashed from the air and smoke roiled across the ground. Count Iblis appeared in a resplendent flash of light.

"Iforbid it!" he decreed.

xxxxx

*Jim Marrs-_Rule By Secrecy_

xxxxx

It was like watching a knife fight in a phone booth. They were surrounded by ships engaged in battle, pulling Bat-turns and jinking in all directions, all of them looking the same to her naked eye. The truth was that Jess wasn't sure just _who_ was winning. What she _did_ know was that Carter had miraculously managed to pull the _Venture_ out of the pack, and they were hightailing it for the _Endeavour_.  
With two ships on their tail.

"Man, I'm done. My fun metre is pegged!" Carter announced as he looked at the scanner.

"Pucker factor ten and rising," Trent agreed.

"Are they escorting us or sighting us?" Jess asked, her heart in her throat as her father's ship grew larger and larger in her vision while the Raiders gained on them. Would they make it or would they be blasted into oblivion just short of a reunion she had only dared to dream about?

"No idea," Carter admitted, turning his attention to the Base Ship ahead of them. "_Endeavour_, do you read?" He had the radio wide open, not sure what freqs the alien behemoth would be using. "This is the Earth shuttle, _Venture_. Requesting assistance as well as permission to land, provided we even get there in one piece. Awaiting instructions. Anxiously, I might add. Please respond."

"Are they even going to receive that message in all this interference?" Trent asked. "The air's full of electronic garbage."

"No idea," Carter replied again. "_Endeavour_, this is . . ."

_Crackle__ . . . __whine __. . .__ hiss __. . ._

"_Venture_, this is Commander Mark Dayton." The voice was instantly familiar. Jess' heart just about seized up. There was no way that all those years could erase the memory of that voice. "Those two birds snuggling up to you are your Colonial escort. Don't take it personally." They looked left and right, and saw the ships pulling even with them. "Follow them to Gamma Bay and await further instruction from our Control Centre."

"Understood, _Endeavour_," replied Carter, throttling back and dropping the _Venture_'s gear. "We are on approach."  
Jess just about had a conniption fit, her fingers trembling as she fought to pull on the communication headset.

_C'mon, girl! You've waited a lifetime for this moment! Shake some words out of your head!_

"Com . . . Commander Dayton! This is Jess Dayton! I . . . I . . ." Her mind went blank. What did a girl say to her father after all these years? Hell, she'd barely been out of jumpers when he'd left! What if she screwed this up? She shook her head helplessly staring forward at the space that still separated them.

"Jessica?" came the reply, almost plaintive in its intensity, even through the hiss. Ahead, the yawning landing bay had filled the ports.

"Hi . . . uh, it's me, Dad. It's me, Jess. I, uh . . . hey, it's been a long time."

_Oh, that was deep and meaningful!_

"Yeah, it has, Sweetie-Bear," came the reply, his voice gruff with emotion. "I'll be waiting for you." Then: "I love you, baby."

Tears stung her eyes. "I love you too, Dad. See you soon." She sniffed, quickly turning away from her fellow passengers, feeling Carter's concerned gaze on her momentarily. She had a reputation for being as tough and resilient as any man, more dedicated and determined than most, but right now the WASA director could feel every defence ever erected around herself crumbling as age-old insecurities and heartbreaks bombarded her with the mere sound of her father's voice. In an instant, she'd become as emotionally fragile as a small child turning to her parent for constant reassurance. An uncomfortable silence hung over the flight deck. She needed to get her emotions in check, to rein them in . . .

"_Sweetie-Bear_?" Carter drawled.

"Shut up, Carter," she growled, leaning over to smack the back of his helmet with a resounding _thwack_.

She'd thank him later.

xxxxx

"Where the hell are we going?" Lauren screamed forward, clutching Fred as the motorcycle continued to put more and more distance between her and Manhattan. They were in Newark, New Jersey, for Christ's sake, and with the lack of explosions in the distance, she was beginning to feel safely out of range of both Cylon strafing runs _and_ Mason's goons. _Just_ safe enough to begin to worry about Fred's motivations, destination, and the origin of these "Brothers of Eden".

For a moment she had thought he hadn't heard her, then he shouted back, "Nearly there," while they careened around a corner, weaving in and out of traffic onto Ridge Street.

"Well that's . . ." she began, and then the staccato of gunfire filled the air. The bike lurched sideways, and they went down laterally, skimming the road surface as they slid another fifty feet. They finally came to a stop, colliding hard with an abandoned car. Lauren lay there a long moment, trying to catch her breath, feeling the heavy bike pressing into her trapped leg. She pulled at her helmet, gazing up in astonishment at the Cathedral Basilica of the Sacred Heart looming over them. What the . . .?

Then Fred was shoving the wrecked bike aside and pulling her to her feet.

"Move it!" he yelled, putting an arm around her and letting her lean on him as she began limping towards the grand stairway in front of her. Gunfire shattered the air once again from behind, and several armed men burst out of the cathedral. The most recent additions, it seemed, were on their side for a change. "Down!" Fred yelled.

They dropped to the staircase as two forces exchanged fire, while Fred continued to propel her up the stairway on her belly. It was like doing army manoeuvres in a battle zone, except the ammo was live and she was hoping to stay that way herself.

"Go!"

Abruptly, she was jerked to her feet again, a second later clearing the enormous bronze doors, decorated in bas-relief, as gunfire rang out again behind them. She could hear rounds _ping_ing off the doors.

"What the hell _is _this? Holy ground?" Lauren demanded as she stared around the Narthex, past the statue of Pope Gregory the Great, and through to the Nave area. There, enormous pillars supported huge vaults, while neatly arranged pews lined the way towards the altar. As cathedrals went, it was breathtaking. But with bullets flying around her and people trying to kill her, she wasn't really in the mood for "breathtaking" just now.

"Ah, the good old days!" Fred replied with a snort of amusement, pulling her along, two men with semi-automatic weapons bringing up the rear.  
"Car at the East Transcept, Fred! Barney's waiting!"

"_Car_? What the hell use is a car? Where's the chopper?"

"You don't want to know!"

Fred cursed, pushing her to the right. It occurred to her that with the throbbing in her leg, she was stumbling along like a bloody water buffalo!  
The door was open and Lauren could see the awaiting black sedan. Before she knew it, Fred had shoved her into the back seat, and had slammed the door behind her. Then the Brother of Eden jumped into the front seat beside his cohort and the sedan peeled away.

xxxxx

Torn once again by the seat of his tattered pants from the jaws of death, Starbuck breathed a weary sigh of relief as he and Snow White dangled at the end of a flailing towline, flying through the air and over the water towards shore. Behind them, a section of car deck ripped away from the Brooklyn Bridge, groaning and screeching as the metal twisted and then snapped. The high-pitched sound made Starbuck grit his teeth, before the deck crashed noisily into the East River. The moment froze in time as it stood on end like a giant breaching sea mammal, before breaking into sections, and collapsing into the water. He spared a glance at the boat full of people that had been watching their near-death experience unfold. He could still see a man standing on the bow, some kind of vid-cam in his grasp. Another looked as though he was holding a pair of field magnifiers and some kind of Earth communicator.

_Enjoying the show?_ he wondered. Personally, he despised the sort who gathered to watch disasters. Feeders off the pain of others, he'd always deemed them. He curled a lip, while he turned his head to study the approaching shoreline. Thick black smoke hung over New York City, while the scream of sirens echoed across the water. He couldn't see any more fighter craft in the distance, but emergency helicopters were buzzing over the city, transporting rescue workers to where they were needed the most. By the looks of it, a blue and white helo was setting down at a nearby pier, possibly alerted to their predicament. Maybe the people on the boat had contacted them? Regardless, the Lightning pilot who had rescued them was flying in that direction.

Moments later, they were suspended over a pier, fifty metrons or so from the helicopter. He could read "POLICE" on the side in enormous letters with "NEW YORK CITY" in smaller ones beneath it. He was fairly certain it was a civil security force. The Lightning above them was holding its position, lowering them safely to dry ground. As soon as Starbuck's feet hit the surface, he released the towline, putting an arm around Snow White and quickly guiding her towards the POLICE helicopter. He offered a wave up to the fighter as it roared away, back towards base, and watched it drop its decoy and towline over the river.

"Are you alright?" he hollered at Snow White over the thunderous noise from the rotating helicopter blades. Three men in dark uniforms were waiting for them, one heading to meet them with a blanket in his hands.

"I think so," she replied, her arm still firmly around him, as they instinctively crouched down, while they drew nearer. Unlike its military counterpart, there were no cannons on the exterior of this helicopter. However, there did appear to be some kind of surveillance vid-system, which made sense. "Are you?"

"Nothing that a towel and a dry set of clothes won't fix," he replied, grinning at the man holding an outstretched blanket. Starbuck released Snow White and let the emergency worker wrap her up snugly. "Are we ever glad to see you!"

"Are you two okay?" the man shouted at him. "That was one crazy ride you just took!"

"We're fine, just a little wet," Starbuck replied, his gaze once again drawn to the devastated city. Smoke rose into the sky from a hundred points, skyscrapers belched flames, and even as he looked, one buckled, collapsing towards the streets below. "Probably there's someone else who needs your help more than we do."

"Never mind that. Aren't you Captain Starbuck? The Colonial Warrior?" the man asked, steering them both towards the helicopter again, a hand on each of their shoulders from behind

"He sure is!" Snow White announced proudly.

"How'd you know that?" Starbuck asked, hesitating when the glint of an oscillating red light inside the helicopter caught his eye.

Then his head exploded in pain and his knees buckled as he sunk into the darkness. Snow White's scream was the last thing he heard.


	57. Chapter Twenty One: Part One

Chapter Twenty-One

"_Ohhhh_ . . ."

The dull thudding in Starbuck's skull seemed to shake his whole world, pulling him unfairly from the blessed sanctity of oblivion. Normally, at this point, he'd tentatively palpate his skull, making sure it was reasonably intact. However, secured behind him, his arms were refusing to obey, preventing that simple luxury.

It just wasn't fair.

His heavy eyelids blinked their way open to peer through a diffuse haze. He could feel his head loll back towards his chest, and jerked it back upright with a little effort, abruptly detecting the oscillating lights of a Cylon above him.

An IL Series Cylon.

"Mal?" he murmured, disoriented for the moment. No, he realized, _that_ wasn't right.

"Malus the Traitor? Hardly," the IL replied, before adding, "You call him 'Mal'? How degrading."

"I say it with love," Starbuck slurred, the comeback coming naturally.

"Disgusting," spewed the IL.

"Well, I call you 'Neon Nob'. Isn't that worse?" Starbuck returned, _knowing_ that voice. After all, how many IL class Cylons were there in this star system? He had wondered what had happened to Baltar's one-time adjutant after Samael Asar had thrown himself off the top of the United Nations building. Why didn't it surprise him that the Cylon was still in the picture?

"Things will go better for you, Captain, if you treat me with a little . . ."

"Respect. Yeah, I know. Same old song, different verse, Lucy. Is that line in the Cylon protocol manual right under 'by your command'? Or is your speech mode stuck in an audio loop?"

"Hmm."

The exchange had cost him more than he wanted to admit. Starbuck swallowed down a faint wave of nausea, drawing in a deep breath as he pressed his face against the cool surface. Beneath him, he detected a vibration that reminded him of his brief trip from the car wreck in the farmer's field to McGuire Air Force Base. His mind was beginning to clear, reminding him just where he was and all that had happened. His clothes clung to him, still wet from the river, as was his hair. He blinked again as things began to come into focus. As he suspected, they were in flight in the helicopter. He was lying on the deck between two rows of seats. Above him he could see a couple monitors, one split four ways. It seemed that they were being fed data from the vid-cams he had spotted on the outside of this helo. Similar to the military gunship he'd been in, there were mission screens displaying live footage from the streets below. One officer was touching the screen, accessing additional data on a dark car they were tracking. Starbuck surmised that he was some sort of tactical commander. The screen flashed between data and live footage so fast it made his head pound as he tried to catch up with what was happening.

Still wrapped in a blanket and sodden, Snow White was seated a few seats down from him. Her eyes were wide and fearful, tears tracking down her face as she leaned towards him anxiously. Thankfully, she appeared otherwise unharmed, and unlike him, she wasn't restrained, her hands enfolded in her lap, tightly wringing a corner of her shirt. He gave her a brief nod and smile, trying to reassure her . . . while lying subserviently on the floor trussed up like a Winter Solstice game bird. Not exactly a vote of confidence in his favour, he realized. He counted one Cylon and two officers back here with him, another uniform up front with the pilot, and noted the weapons mounted at the rear of the helicopter. Additionally, the officers were armed with handguns.

"Sky Command's got 'em, Director. ETA three minutes," the tactical commander reported.

"I see that," came the reply from the other side of Snow White.

Starbuck arched slightly upright, trying to see this "director" he hadn't noticed till now. An officer nudged the warrior in the back with his foot. Starbuck glared back at the man, recognizing him as the one who had coldcocked him. Then his gaze flickered over to a darkened corner of the helicopter where a curl of smoke licked its way up from a glowing thin, white fumarello. A figure leaned forward and a pair of calculating eyes looked back at him. The man was of average Colonial build and size, his three-piece Earth style suit immaculate, considering that parts of his planet had been shot to Hades Hole. What struck Starbuck the most was that other than his smoking, he seemed to be utterly ordinary, to lack any discernible features that would set him apart, demanding a long second look. And he took it.

"What do you know of the _Anakim_?" the man asked softly, taking another drag of his smoke. Sandy, grey-streaked hair, a soft middle age build, yellow-stained fingers on his right hand, he rolled the smoke between his fingers awaiting an answer. "Hmm?"

"That their hospitality leaves a whole fracking lot to be desired," Starbuck replied, this time rolling on to his side and pulling himself into a sitting position. He winced, closing his eyes, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth as his head throbbed with a new intensity. He felt as weak as a newborn felix. He felt even worse when one of the gunsels grabbed him by the chin, squeezing hard. The thug drew back his fist . . .

"Milligan, that's no way to treat our newest _ally_," the guy in charge said, his voice calm, yet commanding, causing the other to stand down immediately.

"_Ally_?" Starbuck scoffed. "If this is how you treat your _allies_, I think I'll pass on the secton-end card game at your place."

"The cuffs were necessary until we had this conversation. They need not be permanent. _You_ need to decide whether you are friend or foe. Now that Samael Asar is dead, _I'm_ the most powerful man on Earth. I am the Anointed Lord of the Anakim. I can make an alliance very advantageous for you, Captain Starbuck." The man leaned forward, smiling cruelly. "And, of course, you and your attractive companion here will still be alive by the end of the day if you accept."

The words chilled Starbuck to the core as Snow White whimpered softly, a fresh trail of tears spilling from her eyes. "Who are you?" Starbuck asked. He waited while Sire Nasty opened up the door, and then tossed the butt of his smoke out the side of the chopper, blowing out another great cloud of smoke.

"The name is Mason."

xxxxx

Apollo checked his targeting system, seeing there was no red dot. While on Earth they had had to activate their tracking beacons so the Earth fighters could differentiate between their Raiders and the Cylons', but out here, where Colonial Warrior was pitted against Cylon, it wasn't necessary. Their birds had been programmed for this since Morlais, when it had become evident that checking ID beacons in battle could put them at a definite disadvantage during a skirmish. They needed a quicker, more reliable way to tell their fighters apart from the Cylons', and Boomer's inspired idea from almost a yahren before was the perfect solution. His thumb caressed the control and he fired. The Raider's left wing was sliced clean off, then a moment later the rest of the Cylon exploded into spacedust.

"The Cylon fighters don't know if they're firing on their own Raiders or ours!" Dietra announced beside him, seeing this latest battle was quickly going their way now that their forces had engaged the enemy.

"Man, I hope Dayton's daughter made it," Baker said, squinting in the _Endeavour_'s direction from the rear third seat.

"Yeah, I hope Starbuck made it too," Apollo replied, diving towards the _Ravager,_ and letting loose his lasers on a battery. Molten bits shot into space as he screamed by, but the enemy's gunnery made no reply. It appeared that fires were raging out of control in three major locations, attributed to Colonial sabotage. It was time for Triton Squadron to make their mark.

"He'll make it," Dietra said.

"Or Dayton will kill him," Baker added, reflexively wincing as a laser salvo shot past them from the _Ravager_.

"Any word from the _Endeavour_?" Apollo asked.

"No," Dietra replied. "They haven't recalled us."

"Alright. Lieutenant Rooke, this is Colonel Apollo. Phoenix Squadron is to engage the remaining Cylon Raiders. I don't want any of them making a run for either Earth or the Lunar Base. Triton Squadron, continue strafing runs on the _Ravager_. Seems Commander Dayton needs a little more time."

"Yes, sir!"

xxxxx

"Return fire!" Syphax ordered, registering more battle damage from strafing runs on the _Ravager_. "Before we have no laser batteries left to fire _with_!"

"We-are-unable-to-differentiate-between-Raiders."

"Then let me make it clearer for you. The ones firing on us are the _enemy_!" Syphax replied. "Is that plain enough, Centurion? Alert our squadrons that all Raiders within firing range will be targeted."

"By-your-command."

"Now fire!"

xxxxx

About the only improvement in being in a car over a motorcycle while being pursued by gunmen was the relative comfort level, especially with a flesh wound. Lauren stretched her injured leg out across the back seat of the dark sedan, feeling absurdly guilty about getting blood on the leather upholstery. She pressed on her oozing wound with a large pile of gauze that Fred had handed her from a first aid kit, staunching the steady trickle of blood.

"Looks minor," Fred said, looking across the seat. "How's it feel?"

"Like I was shot," Lauren replied sourly, staring back at him. "Listen, Fred, I've heard of just about every fraternal organization from the _Loyal Order of the Water Buffaloes_ to the Free Masons, but I've never heard of these _Brothers of Eden_. How about you tell me who they are?"

"They're the guys who just saved your neck," Barney said from the front seat, cranking the wheel hard to the right and tearing around a corner.

"For which I thank you," Lauren replied with a smile. "But if you've _really_ been watching me and my sister all our lives like Fred said, then you know I'm a journalist with a thirst for knowledge and a passion for secret orders. If this order exists, then I should at least have heard its name whispered in the wind. You said my grandfather was a Brother of Eden?"

"Yes. The last of a long line in your family."

"How long?"

"Your direct bloodline's involvement with the Brotherhood goes back all the way to ancient civilization, Lauren. To the first settlers."

"The first . . . I take it we're talking further back than the Mayflower, here?"

"Oh, yeah," said Barney.

That stunned her. "This brotherhood that _I've_ never even heard of goes back to some ancient civilization?" When she'd once asked her grandfather how far back he could trace his roots, he'd told her to the "Brazen Head Pub in Dublin, first bar stool to the right of the Guinness tap." Had he been holding out on her? "_Which_ ancient civilization?"

"The Old Testament refers to them as the Nephilim. The Sumerians called them the Anunnaki. The Egyptians, the gods of the _Zep Tepi_."

"The ancient astronauts, predating our earliest civilizations," she translated. Hadn't she drilled all this into General Roach recently? Then how come it sounded insane when it came from someone else's lips, instead of her own? "But all those societies thought they were gods or demi-gods. Not men."

"And how else would an early Earthman view those who had crossed the heavens in space ships? Or beings that wielded energy weapons, and other technology they couldn't fathom? They had a highly advanced technology, not to mention a generally overbearing nature, combining to make them nearly invincible in the eyes of primitive man. Not surprisingly, they were seen and worshipped as gods. When they first came to Earth they built the lost civilizations of Atlantis and Lemuria, using the slave labour readily available to them."

"Slaves?"

"Serfs, peasants, servants, vassals, proletarians, labourer, working stiffs; same worker, different century. I guess the space farers considered it the natural order of the universe and their due. Docile workers, who also doubled as worshippers. Slaves to self-proclaimed demi-gods and the establishment."

"Not much has changed," added Barney. "Did you know that a mere two percent of U.S. families control fifty-percent of the nation's wealth? And only ten percent of those people own eighty-six percent of the net financial assets. The majority of American families—about fifty-five percent—have zero or negative net worth."

She nodded. She knew.

"There is a theory that these space travellers also started to build settlements on the moon and Mars," continued Fred, "although only vague references of that remain in ancient records, and I personally can't see them suiting up their workers, or in contrast doing the hard work themselves."

"But the jury's still out on that," Barney said. "You probably know more on that score than us, since you work for WASA. Is there really a Mars Station?"

"Barstow Station, yes." Some claimed it was a hoax, created to support WASA's longstanding claims of ancient astronauts. "And there are ancient ruins on Mars, as well," Lauren conceded. "I haven't seen all the data though. But it seems as though all the civilizations they built were destroyed."

"Others from their tribe integrated with early Earthmen. We believe they became the forefathers of the Sumerians, the Egyptians, and the Mayans."

"So what happened to Atlantis, Lemuria and Mars?"

"There was a war between the Great Houses of that day, from what we gather over the treatment of Earthmen. I don't know if you're familiar with the Sumerian mythology of Enlil and Enki, but we've surmised that those legends are based on what happened then. Both Atlantis and Lemuria were destroyed, probably due to some kind of nuclear holocaust. Many have concluded it was the same war that eradicated the settlement on Mars, its only legacy that which eventually recognized Mars as the ancient God of War. Sumerian, Egyptian, Greek, Roman, they all had their own take on it. Unfortunately, most records didn't survive, and much has been lost from the oral tradition."

"Two houses?"

"Yes."

"The Brothers of Eden _and _. . .?"

"The Anakim."

"That sounds . . ."

"Familiar? Yes, from the Bible, the Anakim or the Children of Anak.

"From the Myceanaean Greek _Wanax. King of Men__?_"asked Lauren.

"You sure learned your stuff," said Barney. "Yes. Simply put, they were the offspring of the Nephilim."

"Which is accurate _if_ the Nephilim are merely considered to be ancient astronauts," Lauren replied.

"Exactly."

"How does the New World Order fit in?" she asked.

Fred smiled. "That's everybody _else_'s name for the Anakim, Lauren. We're talking about an ancient powerful and secretive elite, conspiring to eventually rule the world through a dominating global government. What happens politically isn't due to conspiracy, it's due to dedicated and exhaustive efforts. Samael Asar was their rising star, destined to be their first global ruler. They are the original ruling bloodline from across the heavens, deriving their right to rule and dominate directly from God, or so they believe."

"More likely Satan," she replied. "And you oppose them?"

"Damn right we do. To them the rest of the people were, and still are, a glorified worker race of debt slaves, here to support the banks and industry. Once, they were pharaohs, war-gods and wizards. Today, they are politicians and UN Secretaries General. Instead of thunderbolts from Mount Olympus and so called miracles, their power today is money and its manipulations: through it they exercise control over people and resources."

"Sounds like something I'd say," she commented. "What about Count Iblis?"

Fred raised his eyebrows. "I know _who_ he is . . . I'm just not sure _what_ he is."

"But you have a pretty good idea, don't you?" she replied. "You must."

He nodded, turning and narrowing his eyes as a soft thumping sound drew closer.

"Chopper!" Barney yelled. "They've seen us! They must be using the Sky Command system!"

"Damn!" Fred cursed, putting a hand on the dashboard as they careened around a corner. "Head for the subway! It's our only chance!"

"It's too far!" Barney replied, leaning on the horn and winding his way around vehicles in their path.

"Maybe these aren't Mason's goons," offered Lauren as she looked out the window. It was a NYC police chopper, after all. Then again, what was a New York City police chopper doing all the way out in Newark, New Jersey where the State Police had jurisdiction? Especially when the worst of the Cylon attack had taken place in the heart of the Big Apple.

"Yeah, and maybe they'll just let us go our merry way out of the goodness of their hearts!" Barney replied sardonically.

A bullet struck the windshield, crackling the glass, and burying itself in the dash.

"Okay, maybe not," returned Lauren.

xxxxx

Cassiopeia checked the diagnostic results on her scanner a third time, her gaze drifting over to Cadet Xenia. It was the most difficult part of the job, doing everything within her capability, and then finally realizing that it still wasn't going to be enough. Colonial medical science could cure malignant tumours and rebuild men like Cain and Dorado, but it still couldn't reverse the damage of a Cylon pulse laser when it cut through a warrior, causing irreversible damage that continued to eat at healthy tissue, changing it from viable to friable within centars.  
She'd already opened Xenia up, removing necrotic tissue, repairing what she could with antibiotics and enzymes, and grafting a synthetic artery into place where the cadet's aorta was threatening to blow wide open. Now she could see from her latest scans that the superior anastamosis was in danger of coming apart where the damaged tissue had continued to demarcate and necrose. It swept her back to Doctors Paye and Salik trying to save Serina so long ago. She could still remember vividly the agonized look on both Boxey and Apollo. It was the first time she'd realized that even advanced Colonial medicine could still fail its patients.

_Dang, some days I really hate this job._  
Xenia's eyes flickered open and her head tossed restlessly from side to side, her breath ragged. Cassie abruptly moved to the woman's side, her innate compassion for her patients not allowing her to wait for Rhiamon to attend the woman.  
"You're in the Life Station, Xenia," Cassie told her, unsure if the woman would remember much from her harried trip from Control Centre to operating room.  
"Want to see . . . " the cadet took a deep breath, her face contorting in discomfort. "Need to see him."  
Cassie abruptly reached for the medication administration pump they had connected to the patient's intravenous, adjusting the dose and giving her a bolus. Xenia's features relaxed within microns and she smiled wanly at Cassiopeia in thanks.  
"Who do you want to see?" Cassie asked, leaning closer to the woman.  
"Before I die . . ." Xenia gripped the hand offered to her with the sort of strength that only the dying possess. "I want to see Starbuck."

xxxxx

As the WASA shuttle _Venture_ landed in the massive _Endeavour_ bay, Mark Dayton felt as apprehensive as a sixteen-year-old boy waiting to set eyes on his first date. His stomach flittered with butterflies; only these winged wonders were wearing combat boots, body armour and expelling acid-causing toxicants. He drew a deep breath, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops in order to still their restless wringing and fist clenching. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for his first live glimpse of his daughter in thirty years, while his experienced eye took in the signs of battle damage on her ship. The scorch marks on the fuselage were superficial, lasers fired in warning instead of with the intent to destroy.

"Good thing the Cylons were only trying to herd them," Ryan said aloud what Dayton was only thinking.

"Yeah." It was all Dayton could manage. It would have been a cruel twist of fate to have her stolen from him when he was this close to a reunion, providing Fate actually had any cruel twists left in its vaults, after all he'd been through.

The _Venture_'s hatch opened and a tall, slender woman emerged, and then paused at the entrance, brushing a lock of her tawny hair behind her ear. She looked around in amazement, her mouth slightly open, as the vastness of the Base Ship hit her for the very first time. He remembered that feeling when he had first laid eyes on the _Galactica_.

She wasn't the only one rooted to the floor. He just stood there, his legs unwilling or unable to move. It seemed so surreal after all this time . . .

"Go to your daughter, Idiot," Ryan said, giving him a small push forward.

"Uhh . . ."

"You've dreamed about this for thirty years, Mark! C'mon!"

"What if . . . I mean . . ."

"You don't measure up to her memories? News Flash, old thing, we're _all_ old, grey and sagging." Ryan gave Dayton a slight shove. "Get a move on, Plebe!"

Dayton slowly started forward, crossing the distance between them. Jessica dropped her gaze from the rook of the cavernous bay, and her face lit up with a faint look of surprise that turned quickly into a warm smile as her eyes locked on him. She launched herself forward, the distance closing between them in a heartbeat. For a long moment, they just looked at each other, neither saying a word. Dayton could feel the tears welling up as he took in the sight of the daughter he'd worried about ever day since he'd last seen her. She took a step, shaking, and then threw herself into his arms.

"_Dada_ . . ." she murmured into his chest.

Her hair was darker, the child's curls gone, her features more angular. _Like her mother__._He shook his head_._ Why he was even still looking for the child inside of the adult at this point, he couldn't really say. Regardless, she'd grown into a beautiful, intelligent woman, heading up the _Worldwide Aeronautics and Space Agency_. As proud as he was of that fact, he couldn't help but feel robbed of thirty years of fatherhood. He'd missed all her childhood "firsts", from her first day of school, her first adult tooth, and her first date, right up to graduating from . . . wherever it was that she had graduated from. He didn't even know.

_Damn you, Torg! God damn you and Bex and all your vermin! Burn in hell for all you did!_

She was squeezing him so tightly it seemed she was afraid to let him go. He understood. He felt the same desperation, afraid he'd suddenly startle and wake up, finding himself light years away from her once again.

Tears burned his eyes and his chest hitched almost painfully. Thirty years of separation, worried sick and wondering if he'd ever see them again, not knowing anything about his family. Bitterly it hung over him. He had a million questions, but couldn't put voice to a single one of them just now. She pulled back and looked up at him, studying his face exhaustively. The ravages of thirty years of being treated and _acting_ more like an animal than a man, while _koivee_mining in the filthy, vermin-ridden guts of an asteroid had left their mark. Jess' sharp eyes didn't miss that. She smiled tenderly at him, reaching up and wiping away a renegade tear from his cheek.

"God, I missed you, Dad," she said huskily.

"Sweetheart, I can't even begin to tell you . . ." he started throatily, before emotion betrayed him once again, his throat constricting. He squeezed his eyes shut, starting to turn away.

"Where do you think you're going?" she replied, putting a hand on his arm, pulling him back. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she simultaneously wiped them away. She shook her head slightly in bemusement as she gently touched his face. "You look . . ."

"What?" he asked.

"You look . . . _younger_ than I thought . . ."

"Clean living," he replied, pulling her into his embrace once again. This time it just felt right. Like he had come home at last.

He had a hard time accepting that this was 2055. Although thirty years had passed for _him_, forty-five had elapsed on Earth since the _Endeavour_ had disappeared in low Earth orbit, presumably destroyed in the blast that had consumed the International Space Station. Jessica was older now than he had been when he'd left. The Clavis had actually brought them forward in time to the year when the _Ravager_ was destined to reach his home world. It was the first time he'd considered they might be altering history in the making, breaking those same rules that Adama had presumed existed for the Ship of Lights beings. Then again, this was hardly the time or the place to spend time pondering theories of space warps and time vortices. They made his head hurt.

"Clean living, huh? The way Grandpa used to tell it, you had some years to make up for," she murmured with a low laugh, pulling back to look at him in amazement once again. Then her lips trembled and her eyes filmed up with tears. On her face was such an aching vulnerability that he was swept right back to 2010. "What _happened_ to you?" She blinked furiously, forcing herself under control. For a moment, she was that little girl once more, wanting to know when _Dada_ would be home.

"It's a long story, Jess," he sighed, turning as the two men who were piloting the ship drew closer. "After all this time we're still piecing it together ourselves. We have a lot of catching up to do. I swear I'll tell you all of it when we have the time, Sweetie Bear."

She nodded soberly. "Dad . . . can we stick with 'Jess'? Especially in front of my crew."

"Affirmative, Director," he smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in for another squeeze.

She put an arm around him, returning the warm embrace, and wiped her eyes before turning to greet her two-man crew. "Alan Carter, Dillon Trent, this is my father, Commander Mark Dayton."

"Thanks for your help out there, Commander Dayton," Carter said, extending a hand. "I thought we were goners."

"Yes, sir," Trent echoed the sentiment, also offering his hand as he distractedly looked around the bay. "This is _amazing_! Do we get a tour?"

"That could probably be arranged," Dayton grasped each man's hand in turn, "provided the Cylons cooperate. Welcome aboard the Colonial Covert Operations Ship, _Endeavour_. Glad we could help out." He turned towards Ryan who was inevitably sauntering over. "Paddy, come meet my daughter and her crew."

"Paddy?" Jess echoed. "Paddy _Ryan_?"

"The one and only, darlin'. So good to finally meet you," Ryan said, stepping forward and pulling her into his embrace, holding her tightly and rocking her from side to side as though they were dancing.

She laughed aloud at his effusive nature. "Not exactly shy around women, are you?" she smiled.

"I'm the man your mother warned you about, m'girl!" he said with an exaggerated wink.

"She's warned me about quite a few. I'll have to review my records." Jess grinned.

"Now I know we've only just met, but your father's been regaling me with stories about you for so long that I feel I've known you most of my life," Ryan explained, releasing her.

"Actually, I think it's charming. It's kind of like meeting extended family for the first time," she replied sincerely. "Starbuck hugged me too when we met face to face."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least, eh Mark?" Ryan said, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Hmm."

"Doctor Ryan, I know your son," Jess told him.

"_Grae_?" Ryan asked, taking a step back and holding her at arm's length, his features suddenly serious. "How do you know Grae?"

"We used to . . . well, that is we . . . well he's sort of, uh . . ." Jess was turning as red as a beet and looking none too pleased about her discomfiture.

Carter frowned.

"Dear God, strike me dead where I stand," Dayton murmured, looking between his flustered daughter and the idiotically grinning Paddy.

"Mark, I think maybe we're related," Ryan guffawed, turning and clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Or we _should_ be."

"No, no, no! We're just friends!" Jess hastily amended, quickly finding her composure again, her face still flushed. "He's retired Canadian Air Force and an astronaut in WASA. We work together."

"She doth protest too much, me thinks," Ryan quipped. "An astronaut, eh? He took after his old man? How about that!"

"He did, yes," said Jess. "You made quite an impression on him as a child. He talks about you a lot, reminiscing about the fun you used to have."

Ryan's face was a mask of shock. "He _does_?"

Jess nodded exuberantly, before turning back to her father. "Dickins, Ryan, you . . . How many more of the original shuttle crew made it, Dad?"

"Five of us made it: Ryan, Dickins, Porter, Baker and I. We lost Bond and Zuskin early on. Paddy, after decon, how about you take Carter and Trent on up to see Commander Curtis and Doctor Mufti while . . ."

"Wait a minute!" Jess interrupted. "You have our Mars team? We lost contact with Barstow Station three days ago. One of our probes picked the _Endeavour_ up over Mars, but we weren't sure . . ."

Dayton quickly brought her up to speed on the recovery of the Barstow Mars Station survivors, as well as Bruce Johnson's accusations about Commander Chung sabotaging the base.

She literally growled. "I _knew_ it was something like that. WASA has been plagued with suspicious accidents and occurrences for years now. Our previous director, Glen Moore, I'm certain was murdered. And I can't begin to tell you how many close calls I've had since becoming Director . . ."

"What?" Dayton asked, looking up sharply.

"I'm a survivor." Jess shrugged it off. "Chung though . . ." She shook her head in apparent disbelief. "Sam Chung was a prince. He had real vision and dedication. He was part of the Mars research and development project for years before the program saw the light of day. I can't _believe_ he would have anything to do with sabotage."

"What about Bruce Johnson?" Ryan asked her. "He's the one who accused Chung."

Jess frowned, glancing at her father. "I'm afraid my opinion of Bruce isn't exactly impartial. For a lot of years he blamed Dad for his mother's death . . ."

"Yeah, he filled me in on that personally," Dayton told her. Johnson had accused him of being responsible for the destruction of the ISS and everybody aboard back on Mars. He'd even tried to attack him. "But our medic . . ." Bringing Cassiopeia into the mix at this point wasn't even a consideration. At least not a good one. "Well, she thinks the guy is suffering from some kind of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome."

"Yeah? Well, seems to me that he's had it since he was in diapers," Jess replied coldly, before turning to the WASA astronaut. "Carter, what do _you_ make of Johnson?"

"Any guy who'd rather read poetry and paint rather than drink beer and play cards is suspect to me," he replied with a shrug.

"He does his job," Trent inserted. "But he doesn't make friends. He just sort of hangs out in the background watching everybody else."

"What does Tom Curtis think?" Jess asked.

"Been kind of busy to ask," Dayton admitted. "Paddy, why don't you take Carter and Trent on a two bit tour and hook them up with Curtis. Maybe we can get to the bottom of this. I'll take Jess with me to the Control Centre."

"Will do," Ryan agreed, steering the others towards decon. "See you in the OC."

"_Finish_ the tour there, don't _start_ it," Dayton counselled.

"Party pooper."

"Sticks and stones."

Jess smiled as she watched them walk away. "By the way, this ship . . . it's obviously Cylon in origin. Where in God's name did you get it?"

"We stole it."

"You . . . of course."

xxxxx

Starbuck had heard the highlights about Director Mason from General Roach. The self-proclaimed "most powerful man in the world" was the American Director of National Intelligence and the one who had been behind Dickins and Hummer's imprisonment at Cheyenne Mountain, not to mention the prime suspect in the assassination attempt on President Gibson.

It didn't take someone with a degree in bureaucratic science to figure out that Mason could see that the Colonial Covert Operations ship, _Endeavour_, would be the victor in the battle between Cylons and humans. Now he was scrambling to align himself with the mighty Colonial Base Ship, choosing to recruit Starbuck to his side . . . apparently through intimidation and threats. However, what Starbuck _didn't_ know was how powerful or prevalent these "Anakim" really were. While he was escaping the United Nations Complex with Grae Ryan, it had certainly seemed that Samael Asar called the shots on Earth through his Universal Law. But what about now? After all, General Roach had told him about the worldwide military coupes. Had those outside of the Anakim's circle managed to regain control of their infiltrated governments? Or had the attempts been unsuccessful? Was the Anakim leader bluffing?

"Well, Captain?" Mason prompted him.

It was a delicate situation, requiring finesse. Admittedly, that wasn't Starbuck's forte. The Colonial Warrior's gaze flickered once again to Snow White. He needed to get her out of the picture, somehow. He needed to "minimize the civilian casualties" as it were. "Will you let the girl go?"

Mason smiled, taking a long drag on his skinny white smoke, the scent wafting Starbuck's way. He wrinkled his nose. In comparison to his fumarellos, the odour was foul. Acrid, like smouldering Viper lubricant.

"No," Mason replied. "She's my insurance."

"Does the most powerful man on Earth _need_ insurance?" Starbuck asked, with as much sarcasm as he dared.

"My offer is not without a time limit, Captain," said Mason, eyes even colder than usual.

"So . . ." Starbuck mused aloud, "basically if I sign up, we get to live. If I don't . . ." He left the words unsaid as Snow White gasped in horror at him. Then he dredged up a smile, forcing the repugnant words from his throat for her sake. "That bit about it being advantageous to _me_ . . . how exactly?"

"I thought you might see it my way," Mason returned.

"Director, we're coming up on Dayton," one of the director's associates said.

"_Dayton?_" Starbuck gasped.

"L.M. Dayton. I believe you know her father," Mason replied, standing to look at the screen. He glanced at his officer. "How many are with her?"

"Infrared indicates three occupants," the man replied, checking his data. "Two in the front, one in the back."

"Stop that car, Milligan," Mason ordered as calmly as if he were regarding the shine on his shoes..

On the mission screen in the helicopter, Starbuck could see them zeroing in on the car they had targeted. One of the men jumped up, grabbing a high powered weapon and moving to stand in the open doorway. It was the guy who'd knocked him out earlier. He broadened his stance, aiming downward.

"I want her _alive_, Milligan," Mason said. Something in his voice told Starbuck what the result would be if she _wasn't _taken alive. "I need that list."

"Understood," replied the killer, his own voice making it clear he'd picked up on the veiled threat.

Starbuck couldn't help but wince as the semi-automatic weapon started cracking, the sound stabbing through his skull. On screen, the car below raced in a serpentine path along the road, weaving between other drivers, trying to evade fire while also returning it. Other vehicles as well as civilians were down there, running for cover. He didn't have a lot of choice; he had to do _something_. Under the pretence of an aching head, Starbuck leaned forward, abruptly launching himself into a forward roll across the deck, then pivoting his body around on his back and kicking out with both legs. The cry of warning from a fellow officer came too late. The Colonial Warrior connected squarely with Milligan's astrum, sending him flying out of the helicopter, his weapon still in his hands, screaming in fear and shock. The gunsel plummeted, the scene captured on vid-cam as he first struck the car they were pursuing, then bounced off to vanish under the wheels of a truck. Starbuck couldn't help but nod in a perverse satisfaction.

_One down, four to go. Lucifer was extra._

"Bastard!" a team mate cursed, leaping out of his seat and grabbing Starbuck by the flight suit, pulling him towards the edge of the cabin.

"_I_ wasn't the one firing on innocent people!" Starbuck found it necessary to remind him, trying to grab onto something, _anything_ to prevent the forward momentum. He dug in his boots, but they merely scuffed across the deck as he was dragged forcibly and helplessly.

"_Starbuck_!" Snow White screamed.

"Let me drop him, Director," the man begged. "Seems clear to me that he's already chosen sides!"

Wind whipped through his hair as Starbuck's shoulders hung over a precipice. It was a long way down, and his chest hitched in fear that he'd be soon be following Milligan. The officer's face was red, his lips curled back over his stained, crooked teeth in a furious growl. If Mason really needed the warrior, there was little chance he'd be allowed to go through with this impromptu plan. After all, Starbuck was his best chance at liasing with the _Endeavour_. At least, that was the warrior's theory and he was sticking with it.

"Stand down, Miller. You _might_ get your chance later," Mason promised with a smile. "Right now, I want Dayton."

Starbuck was jerked to his feet and slammed into a seat beside Lucifer. Miller reached above him, grabbing another weapon off the gun rack, leaving himself exposed. Starbuck lowered his head, letting out a roar, as he propelled himself upward and forward, hitting the gunman hard and driving him backwards into a monitor. One screen sparked and died as the man's skull connected.

"Shit!"

They grappled awkwardly for a moment, and Starbuck thought for a moment he might be sending this one to join Milligan in Hades Hole, when a pair of mechanical hands grabbed Starbuck by the shoulders from behind, throwing him to the deck. One of the others from the front joined the melee. This time Mason didn't intervene as his men did their best to subdue him, using whatever force they deemed necessary. He was picked up and thrown into a seat, his wrist restraints attached by a chain to a cross bar over his head, and his arms pulled upwards from behind him, forcing him to lean forward. Suddenly, his jaw was seized and he staring up into the dark eyes of Mason.

"That was foolish," the director told him, the grip surprisingly strong for a man who appeared so sedentary. "The girl will pay for your insolence. And _you_ . . . you will still play a role in achieving world domination for the Anakim."

"Don't count on it," Starbuck returned, unable to even look in Snow White's direction. Not only had he put her in a perilous position, but he'd failed to protect Dayton's daughter. If only he'd had the good sense to play along, he might have been able to help them both . . . but he'd let his temper and instinct get the better of him. After all, he was a warrior, not a negotiator.

Mason snickered, releasing Starbuck's jaw, patting his cheek tolerantly, as if he were a dull-witted, disobedient child. "That was a promise, Captain." He pointed at Miller, issuing an unspoken order, before returning to his seat. The crack of a high-powered weapon filled the air once again as they resumed their attack on the vehicle below.

"You strike me as a guy who breaks a lot of promises, Mason," Starbuck said, unable to let the director get in the last word.

Mason's cold, predatory gaze settled on the warrior. "I also break a lot of _men_."


	58. Chapter Twenty One: Part Two

Apollo pulled up from their strafing run, the battery he had targeted on the Cylon Base Ship now space dust, while the _Ravager_ burned on multiple levels under the offensive attack of Phoenix Squadron. Luana, Acastus and the others had done irreversible lethal damage by the looks of the most recent explosion to light up the _Ravager_. Their remaining mega-pulsar was quiet, and they hadn't fired a single pulse at the _Endeavour_ for several long centons. At this point, the ship was, barring a miracle, done for; it was only a matter of when the fires would reach the reactors.

"Triton Squadron, pull back. It doesn't look like she has much more time," Apollo ordered the squadron swarming the Base Ship, as chunks of the hull flew off several decks below the destroyed pulsar, the rip belching fire and debris.

"Would be kind of fun to fire the final shot, though," Giles' voice came over the comm.

"Unless you were caught in the explosion," Jolly pointed out. "When those fusion reactors blow, it will take out everything within a kilometron radius, minimum."

"Let's go give Phoenix Squadron a hand," Apollo inserted, checking his scanner, seeing what was left of the battle seemed to be between the two forces of fighters half way between the two capital ships.

"Aye, aye, Skipper . . . uh, sorry, _Colonel_," Jolly amended. "On your wake."

"That's all right, Jolly. Old habits die hard."

"So do old Cylons," Lieutenant Rooke inserted over the comm. "How about some of you veterans come give us a hand, that is if you can tear yourselves away from watching the _Ravager_ burn?"

"Copy that. On our way, Rooke."

xxxxx

"President Gibson, Ambassador Aelian wanted to inform you that the United Nations General Assembly is deliberating on a new Secretary General to replace Samael Asar. The Security Council has already made their recommendations."

"Already?" Gibson replied. With Asar's death, the UN Security Council had suddenly come to their senses in supporting the military defence of Earth. But now that the Cylons had retreated to high Earth orbit, satellite data from WASA leaving all with the impression that it was only a matter of time before the Colonial warship defeated the mechanical creatures, politics and deal making had once again become the order of the day. Gibson shook his head, wondering not for the first time if the UN had their own separate agenda, or if they were just so far removed from reality that they couldn't see the forest for the trees. "They didn't waste any time grieving, did they?"

"No, sir. What shall I tell the ambassador, Mr. President?"

"The ambassador knows my feelings on the matter," Gibson replied, getting back to dealing with the crises in Las Vegas and New York City. A few scattered reports were beginning to come in from Nevada. The Big Apple was a disaster, but at least most of its citizens were still alive.

"Thank you, Mr. President."

xxxxx

"Get down!" Fred yelled, leaning through the window and firing upward at the chopper facing them down. His weapon roared into the air as slugs flew upwards, seeking a target.

Lauren ducked as bullets ripped through the windshield, shattering it. Barney swerved right and the car began to tip. The vehicle righted itself, then skidded across the road, slamming into a dumpster, thrusting her forward on to the floor. In the distance, she heard the sound of the chopper fading, as it flew on. She dared to hope for a moment, and then her heart sank as she heard it heading back, coming in for a landing.

_Bloody hell!_

"Fred?" she called. Silence. "Barney?"

There had been a brief moment of hope when a gunman had come hurling out of the police helicopter a hundred feet to his death, making them all wonder what the heck was happening up there. However, it had been short-lived, and the helicopter had dogged them relentlessly, completely unmindful of anything or anybody that might get in their way, as a constant barrage of gunfire bracketed and pummelled them.

Pulling herself up off the floor, she dared a look. The driver was slumped over the wheel, the side of his head and shoulder covered with blood. Fred was halfway out of the car, his legs stopping him short of flying right through the destroyed windshield. Neither man was moving or breathing, by the looks of it.

A quick glance back towards the helicopter revealed two men dressed as police officers heading her way. Another watched as he hung out of the chopper in a dark suit. She could see him lighting a cigarette, a plume of vapour wafting above him. It had to be Mason. Terror gripped her, freezing her to the spot as the Director of National Intelligence held her gaze. There was no doubt in her mind that nothing would stand in the way of him capturing her. What would happen after that she didn't even want to think about.

Then her adrenaline kicked in.

She scampered up and over the seat, grabbing up Barney's handgun before launching herself past Fred. With guilt nipping at her conscience, she used his clothes to propel herself forward, before scrambling over the hood of the car. Gritting her teeth in pain, she fell heavily onto the pavement, rolling and forcing herself to her feet again as the crack of a weapon rang out and a bullet whizzed past her head, pinging off the asphalt. An angry voice called out, but she couldn't make out the words. She raced around the dumpster, using it as both a crutch and a shield, before limping heavily down the alleyway. Impenetrable red brick and rusted roll gates surrounded her on all sides, the only two doors visible denying her entry. She stumbled onward, holding the gun in her grip before she really realized what it was there for. _It's a weapon, you idiot! Use it!_ She drew a deep breath, ducking into a doorway before turning to make her stand.

xxxxx

"This is incredible!" Jess said, her eyes darting everywhere around the massive bay as they headed into the Central Core of the Colonial Covert Operations Ship, _Endeavour_. "We don't have anything that even compares to this, even with the Cylon tech we found at Roswell."

"Hey, you built a Base on Mars, Jess. You actually made it, and started terraforming that rock. In my day that was a distant dream," Dayton replied as he led the way down the ladderwell.

"Yeah, and just like the ISS, it's gone," Jess called down to him. "Did you see the ruins on Mars? The ancient ones, I mean."

"We did and we scanned the snot out of them. We're sure they're Kobollian in origin, the founding fathers of the Colonials."

"_Kobollian_, huh?" She tried out the word on her tongue. "That's the planet they came from?"

"Kobol." He nodded, electing to withhold the information that his forefathers had come from there too. There would be time enough for that later. "There's also a fairly intact space dock and a now-destroyed habitat inside Phobos, along with three battlecruisers in varying stages of completion," he said, waiting for her at the bottom of the ladder. "The space dock is immense even by Colonial Standards. Like nothing any of them had seen before."

"You're _kidding_ me!" she said. "That could explain those crazy readings the Russians picked up years ago. How old?"

"I'm guessing about seven thousand years," Dayton replied. "That's about when the Kobollian Exodus happened, in our years. Obviously, some of them ended up on Mars. There were huge transparent underground tunnels, as well as a pyramid there, and a tomb complex you wouldn't believe, which is fairly indicative of a major Kobollian centre."

"And they were building warships. Battlecruisers, you called them."

"That's what they looked like, as least to us. Huge, whatever they were."

"For a war?" Jess asked, joining him at the bottom.

"Probably. From the damage we witnessed, I'd say it looked more like a catastrophe hit them than an attack, but it's difficult to know for certain after all this time. The place was pummelled to junk," Dayton said. "The settlement on Mars looked like it had some kind of controlled environmental dome that was shattered. Phobos had one too."

"Wow, if Mom could . . ." It was like a curtain suddenly dropping on her enthusiasm. She looked down, suddenly avoiding his probing gaze.

"How_ is _your mother, your sister?" he asked her, suddenly needing to hear they were okay, despite the fact that Yvonne would be seventy-eight. It was the missing piece of this happy partial family reunion. Jess bit her lip, seeming to take an extraordinary amount of time to answer. Dayton could feel his guts twist into knots, and his blood run cold. He'd mentally prepared himself for this possibility, so how could it still hurt so damn much? Shit, what didn't hurt, after all this time? "Oh _God_ . . ."

She put up a hand to halt his words. "No, no. They're both . . . _alive_." Then she sighed, shaking her head, before adding, "Mom has advanced Alzheimer's Disease."

His heart stopped beating then and there.

"We had to put her into care."

"In . . . in care," he repeated numbly, closing his eyes against the harshness of reality. He turned, raking his hand through the back of his hair, digging his fingers into the muscles tensing up in the back of his neck. During that moment while he had waited for Jessica to explain, he'd reconciled himself to the fact that Yvonne was probably dead. It would have almost been easier, especially where his relationship with Cassiopeia was concerned. But _Alzheimer_'s . . . the news was more shattering than he could have imagined.

Yvonne's father had had Alzheimer's and it had been a slow living death, stealing bit by bit the essence of its victim. The disease had destroyed a once sharp, bright and wonderful mind, while leaving him befuddled and dependent. It had been Yvonne's greatest fear that she would one day be similarly affected. Even though thirty years—or forty-five, depending on one's point of view—had passed, he loved his wife just as much as he had when he'd disappeared. She was his friend, his lover, the muse of his dreams, the mother of his children . . . Which got him to thinking, why wouldn't his own children be looking after their mother? After all, if he'd been there _he_ would be caring for Yvonne, not strangers. It made him contemplate how else had he had let his wife and his daughters down over the years.

"Dad?"

He felt Jessica's hand gently touch his shoulder. He left his contemplations behind, turning to face her at the bottom of the Central Core. He opened his mouth, but before he could spit out a word, she started explaining.

"Lauren and I spelled each other off for a while, looking after Mom. But consistency and familiarity are important with Alzheimer's patients, and with our careers . . ." her words trailed off as she studied his features. Something she saw there evidently ticked her off. She set her jaw stubbornly, as had generations of Daytons before her. Then she blew out a harsh breath, taking a step back and crossing her arms. "Why am I justifying myself to you? This is _crazy_. You've been _gone_ forty-five years!"

He took a step back under the onslaught, tempted to raise an arm to protect himself. She had a temper just like her mother's. "You're right, _I wasn't_ here. I don't know the circumstances or what you went through. I'm sure you did the best you could, Jess," he said, trying to make himself believe it.

"Damn right I did," she nodded sharply without faltering. "I still _am_!"

He nodded, hesitating a moment. "Would she know me?" he asked, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat.

"I . . . I don't know, Dad. I doubt it. She held out hope for a long time, but finally accepted that you were dead." She paused. "It was easier that way. Not knowing for sure is the worst part."

He nodded. What did he expect? That somehow across the universe Yvonne could sense the presence of her soul mate? Yeah, it was romantic as hell, but not very pragmatic. "What about Lauren?" he asked.

"Lauren . . . I'm not sure," Jess said, shaking her head. "She's a freelance journalist and WASA's media relations person. She's been trying to get to the bottom of who was behind covering up the arrival of the _Endeavour_. The space shuttle, I mean," she clarified. "I swear our own Director of National Intelligence has been trying to either catch her or kill her for the last few days. I wanted her to come in, to let one of my contacts put her in a safe house, but you know Lauren; she's like a dog with a bone." She frowned. "We lost touch with her late last night. She was going to interview someone."

"Who?"

"She didn't say."

"Any leads?"

"She said something about her Pulitzer, her next big story. I haven't had a whole lot of time to pursue it with the Cylons destroying Mexico City and Las Vegas, not to mention our satellite grid. And New York is such a disaster right now . . ."

"Of course," he nodded. "We'll find her if we have to tear apart New York City to do it."

"That was my general plan, as well," she replied. They both looked up as the Unicom crackled to life.

"_Commander Dayton, report to Control Centre. Commander Dayton, report to Control Centre_."

"Come on," he said, gesturing towards the hatchway. "To the Bat Cave."

"Let's get this straight, Caped Crusader, I _refuse_ to be Robin . . ." Jess insisted as she preceded him.

xxxxx

"Alpha-Bay-just-opened-up-to-the-vacuum-of-space, Commander," announced one of the centurions.

"It _exploded_, you idiot!" Syphax amplified his vocal modulator on the savaged _Ravager_. All efforts had been on trying to extinguish the fires raging on the Base Ship, and repelling the attack of several Raiders that looked just like their own.

"As-you-suggested, the-fire-is-out, Commander," the centurion reported.

"So is everything from the three decks affected!" Syphax replied. "Out in _space_, that is! Why is the _Harrower_ not responding?" the IL demanded of communications.

"I-do-not-know, Commander."

"Well, _surmise_ something!"

"That-function-is-disabled."

"Oh, such brilliance!"

"As-requested, I-sur . . ."

"Do we still have navigation?" Syphax demanded.

"Affirmative."

"The ship is lost," Syphax said, assessing the tactical situation, and making the usual relative calculations to come to a conclusion. If it was inevitable that the _Ravager_ was going to explode, the IL would make one final move to destroy at least a hundred or so more of the human vermin he had been sent here to eradicate. "Change course, Centurion. Maximum speed." He gave the coordinates.

"By-your-command."

xxxxx

Starbuck forced his head upright to look around, craning his neck against muscles that were already sore. But hey, on the upside, at least it took his mind off his fading headache. As soon as they'd landed, Mason's two gunmen had jumped out either side of the helicopter to go after Dayton's daughter. Mason had poked his head out to watch, lighting another of his seemingly endless supply of smokes. Then Starbuck heard the crack of a weapon followed by a curse from the director as Mason joined them on the ground.

Now it was down to the pilot, Lucifer and Snow White. Oh, and of course, Starbuck. His arms being wrenched and secured up from behind him, forcing him into a position where he was almost doubled over, had effectively prevented any other brilliant plans from being executed as a gradual burning ache consumed his upper body. Immobilization in a forced unnatural position, it was a form of torture that the Cylons used to use. For some reason he hadn't expected it from fellow humans. He snuck a look at Snow White, trying to keep his mind off himself.

She looked paralysed with utter terror as she cowered in her seat, trying to make herself look invisible. He groaned quietly, squirming beside Lucifer, appearing to try to ease his aching body while really attempting to get her attention. At this angle, the IL couldn't see his face.

"Are we sitting comfortably?" Lucifer asked beside him in amusement, casting a brief glance at the Colonial Warrior. He turned away without waiting for an answer.

"Reminds me of your guest quarters back on Baltar's Base Ship," Starbuck groused, catching Snow White's eye. He mimed "run" at her, nodding towards the open helicopter door and willing her to take the only chance she would get. The security vids showed the perimeter clear of Mason and his goons. Naked fear looked back at him when the buxom trucker realized what he wanted her to do. She shook her head side to side, the movement barely perceptible, but the message clear. "You Cylons, always pulling out all the stops for creature comforts," he continued rambling, as the IL looked back at him. He needed to keep Lucifer's attention firmly on him. "All those over-stuffed cushions and the bubbled turbo-bath, the fine Sagittarian ale and the Piscon delicacies. Ah, I remember them fondly."

Lucifer's lights sped up for a moment. "Too many blows to the head, Captain?"

"How many _is_ too many, I wonder," Starbuck replied thoughtfully, feeling the IL's gaze on him briefly. "Play any pyramid lately, Lucy?"

"Interesting that you should ask. I played Five Card Stud while I was on WASA's lunar base."

"How'd you do?"

"As a matter of fact, I won."

"Hmm," Starbuck replied doubtfully. "I'll bet you cheated."

"Cylons do not cheat, Captain," Lucifer replied haughtily.

"Oh? What about Cimtar?"

"That was war, not cards."

"You play them differently?"

"You do not?"

"Not especially. I think maybe you missed something in those card lessons we had over Kobol. I figured you for smarter than that."

"I assure you, I missed nothing."

"Sorry, bub, I'm not convinced. Maybe that's why you got Baltar to do your cheating for you. You were down a processor, too intellectually incapacitated to figure out how to do it yourself. Time for an upgrade, eh Lucy?"

"Captain . . .!" The word exploded out of the Cylon.

"Oh, stow it, Servo Slave! Face it, tactically, you're about as capable as a half-brained centurion with an intermittent power cell!"

"I am warning you . . .!" Lucifer said.

Just like he wanted it. After spending plenty of time with Malus, he knew how to push all the right IL "buttons" to get a very un-Cylon-like reaction out of a cyborg. Starbuck rolled his shoulders as much as his position would allow, once again daring a brief look at Show White. "Run" he again mimed at her, this time slowly, drawing out the message as if it would have more impact that way. Vaguely, he wondered if the dance Mason's boys had done on his face was doing anything at all to sway her decision.

"You are trying to antagonize me. It will not work," Lucifer said, standing and taking a step back from him, as if only physical distance could help him keep his cybernetic self-control. "If you do not stop, then I will . . ."

"You can't hurt me, Neon Noggin'!" he scoffed. "Now you're Mason's lap droid, instead of Baltar's," he went on recklessly and scornfully. "You take orders from him, once again subordinate to a human." He forced a chuckle, craning his head to get a look at the IL. "Now that's gotta hurt, huh? All those yahrens of service, looking up reverently at Big Bug Brain on his egomaniacal podium, and he gives the Base Ship to a human and puts you in charge of shining his boots! Then when you finally _do_ get your own Base Ship, you lose it to a derelict _Abaddon_-class ship commanded by Malus. It's gotta grind the gears when an _earlier_ and _inferior_ model IL shuts you down like a rusty, third-rate, refitted bilge pump from Atilla."

"Big Bug Brain! Egomaniacal . . . why _you_ . . ." snarled Lucifer, his eyes stopping their oscillation and fixing squarely on Starbuck.

"GO!" Starbuck shouted, the message for Snow White alone.

Like a switch had gone off, Snow White made up her mind. She leapt through the open doorway, darting to the rear of the chopper outside, and out of sight.

"The female is escaping!" Lucifer cried as he turned to see what was happening right in front of his optical sensors. He took a step that way. "You fools! The female is . . ."

Starbuck kicked out with his boot, knocking the IL off balance at the same time as the pilot raced into the cabin. The sound of Lucifer's servos and gyros whining loudly in protest was music to his ears. Just about dislocating his shoulders, Starbuck thrust out his other foot, tripping the pilot, causing him to crash into the Cylon. The two went down in a tangled mess of limbs.

It was beautiful!

Not letting up, he continued to viciously kick at the two in the cramped space, feeling like a badly behaved prepubescent girl scrapping in the schoolyard. Still, he was determined to give Snow White a head start that would see her make good her escape. He owed her at least that much. Then Lucifer clutched an ankle, immobilising it, while the pilot clambered out of range. He glared at Starbuck as he jumped up, blood trickling from his forehead. Then he began accessing the Sky Command system, while speaking rapidly into his headset. He touched the still-functioning monitor, checking digital data from this entire neighbourhood. Apparently, this part of the city was under police surveillance at all times.

Nice friendly place.

Starbuck held his breath as images flickered across the screen, switching location over and over until he was looking at the backs of Mason's goons heading down an alley. The image abruptly changed to the helicopter sitting in the street, not a living soul in sight. The pilot turned a malignant gaze on the Colonial Warrior. Starbuck grinned winsomely back at him.

Whatever happened next would be worth it. Snow White had disappeared.

xxxxx

It was the conventional Count Iblis appearance: lightning, thunder, fire, brimstone and his declaration of forbiddance. At one time it had driven a little fear into Ama's heart and had ruffled her indomitable spirit. Now it was just getting annoying.

The Empyrean necromancer ignored him, embracing her powers and focussing on Eirys, summoning her spirit from the realm where she now resided. At one time Ama had thought her powers were embodied in her Empyrean talisman, as had all her folk, but she had long since outgrown that assumption. Her powers, like her spirit, were boundless, limited only by her lack of understanding before her father had unwittingly mentored her, correcting that fallacy. She had learned through the Oculus that which even Iblis didn't understand. The Great Powers had evoked a restriction on all beings of their kind from unrestrainedly flexing their celestial powers, requiring them to abide by certain rules. However, the decree was only that, a decree. An authoritative order having the force of "Celestial Law" to back it up. But as they had realized with Count Iblis, the Great Powers could not make her bend to their will. And a being as powerful as she had become would not let a hierarchy that so blatantly and narcissistically manipulated its acolytes browbeat her. She would do things _her_ way.

An evanescent shimmering light appeared. Radiant particles danced in a heavenly swirl, coming together, slowly taking on a recognizably human form. A graceful, willowy woman appeared in long robes, her long shining hair flowing behind her like a cloak caught in the breeze, her delicate features unmistakably belonging to Eirys, the Angylion sorceress. Milli-centon by milli-centon, the image gained sustenance.

"I'm warning you, Daughter . . ." Iblis growled, raising a hand, pointing it towards her, his fingers crackling with ugly light.

"Not a tactically sound idea, Father," she replied as the skies above them began to rumble, the clouds roil. She could sense that Iblis was caught between his displeasure in her and his paternal curiosity. Her father was actually wondering if she indeed had the power to rescue Eirys from the dark place where he had sent her to languish for all of eternity.

"Eirys!" Baltar choked out, moving towards his Angylion wife as her tenuous form blossomed into a tangible presence. She collapsed into his waiting arms. "By all the Lords . . ." She smiled up at him, raising a trembling hand to caress his face, miming his name weakly.

"Ama, caution now," John counselled her. "The Great Powers will not approve . . ."

"_I _do not answer to the Great Powers, John!" she snarled, curling her hands into fists. "Surely _you_ understand that by now, even if _they_ do not!"

"_Ama_ . . ." Baltar sputtered.

"I do not _want_ to destroy you, Ama, but you force my hand through your betrayal," Iblis cursed.

"That's the whole idea, Father," she cried, turning to face him for the very last time. She tossed the Oculus high into the air and in a blink it disappeared, reappearing inexplicably in the folds of Eirys' robes. Above them, the clouds darkened. Lightning split the thundering sky. Ama smiled maniacally, her gapped-tooth grin hideously framed by her hair, wildly blowing around her face. She raised her hands above her, a supernatural energy crackling in readiness, waiting to be unleashed by her fingertips. "_This_ is my destiny! It is written across the stars in the spilt blood of my beloved Empyreans! I challenge you, Count Iblis!"

"Ama, you _mustn't_," John tried to tell her as he, Baltar and Eirys all began to fade, evanishing amid the storm. "No! Not now!" he shouted, then the three disappeared, leaving father and daughter standing alone.

Iblis smiled, raising his hand to point at his child. "_You_ challenge _me_?"

"I do."

"Then you give me no choice, Daughter. I accept your challenge."

His dark powers shot across the Empyrean, the universe trembling as Ama met them with her own.

xxxxx

Lauren's first shot had sent Mason's remaining goons diving for cover behind parked cars in the alleyway. Her second had merely sent an age-old adage into her brain. _The pen is mightier than the sword_. Well, the pen was a fair bit mightier than an empty magazine too, unless she was going to use it to club someone over the head. Desperately, she tried the door behind her, twisting the knob and pounding on its surface, while one guy called out, "She's empty!"

Yeah, she _felt_ empty.

"Give it up and we won't shoot!" the other called.

A twinge in her leg reminded her that they already _had, _not that she was inclined to believe them, in any case. She looked down the alley, searching for a plan of action that didn't involve surrendering. Typically, there was little cover and even less opportunity. Mason's goons were heading towards her, the director hanging back about twenty feet, which didn't surprise her. She was all out of options, and she knew it.

Lauren kicked the door hard, letting out a strangled yell of frustration. She was not one by nature predisposed to giving up. _Ever!_ She dropped Barney's gun and raised her hands, stepping out from the doorway. She could feel tears sting the backs of her eyes, but blinked furiously, refusing to give into them. She would _not_ cry!

The two "cops" approached her, one with his gun trained on her, the other holstering his and showing his empty hands to her.

"I'm going to search you for weapons, Ms. Dayton," he informed her, pointing to the brick wall. "Don't give me any trouble."

Grinding her teeth, she turned, putting her hands up against the wall. His touch was purely professional, sweeping over her from shoulders to feet, which surprised her on more than one level. Mentally, she had prepared herself to be humiliated and degraded.

"She's clean," he announced, putting a hand on her shoulder and turning her towards him. He took her arm, guiding her back down the alley. "Cooperate and we won't hurt you, Ms. Dayton."

"Why do I have a hard time believing that?" she replied, limping along beside him.

Mason smiled, hearing her words. "Because you're well known to have a hard time cooperating, _Ms. Dayton_." He drawled her name, making it sound like a rare tropical disease. "We are merely being prudent."

"Oh yes, _Director Prudence_. Thought I recognized you," she replied, stopping in front of him. "How's the world domination thing going, huh?"

Mason's face twisted from indifference to just plain ugly. "Where's the list?"

"What list?" she asked, abruptly nonplussed at the change in topic.

"The list of Anakim," Mason spat.

Which was almost funny considering she'd only just learned about them. Regardless, she'd been compiling her personal list on the New World Order for years. "Oh, _that_ list. It's somewhere you won't get your slimy hands on it, and where it will do the most good." She abruptly wished she was there _with_ the list . . .

"You're bluffing," Mason replied, nodding at his men who once again propelled her forward.

They left the alleyway, moving around the dumpster and past Fred and Barney's bodies. She averted her eyes, unable to think about the deceased Brothers of Eden just now as she limped towards the helicopter.

"Any luck?" Mason called out to a man who was standing beside the chopper.

"No, she's gone to ground somewhere. Has to be hiding. Do you want us to keep looking?"

"No."

"Lose someone?" Lauren asked with interest.

"Never mind, we don't need her now," Mason replied with a calculated look at the journalist. He tossed the butt of his cigarette and at once lit another. All the while, he kept his shark's gaze unwavering.

It chilled her.

"Up you go," her escort said, helping her into the chopper.

Within was seated a robot that _had_ to be the Cylon Jess had told her about. The one that had been at the Armstrong Lunar Base, the one that had since appeared at the UN. _Lucifer,_ she thought she recalled the robot's "name". It said nothing as they pushed her into a seat, which was when she noticed the other occupant.

Barefoot, he was wearing a damp US Air Force flight suit. Both his hands and ankles were cuffed, but his arms were yarded up behind him with a length of chain, secured to an overhead runner. The awkward position forced him to bend over, almost doubled up. Although it was obviously awkward for him, he craned his neck to look across at her. A fresh cut on his cheekbone was trailing blood, as was his nose. Overall, he looked like he'd gone a couple rounds with a boxer and lost. Then she noticed the gag in his mouth, stretching his lips back in a grimace. She caught a brief flash of straight white teeth as he spoke through the gag defiantly, the words muffled but discernible.

"Hi there. How's _your_ day going so far?"


	59. Chapter Twenty Two: Part One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Starbuck had lost all sense of time, microns feeling more like centars the longer they dragged by. Sleep deprived, immobilized and gagged, the ride on the helicopter was torturous. He'd catch little two centon felix naps until noise, motion or relentless discomfort would jolt him back to wakefulness. Those around him faded into the background, while the burning in his shoulders, the thumping of helicopter blades, and the oscillating hum of Lucifer close by became his unrelenting companions.

Where the frack had Baltar, his guardian weevil, gone?

With the wrist restraints so tight and his arms wrenched up behind him so awkwardly, he was slowly losing the sensation in his fingers, an earlier tingling replaced by a gnawing numbness. For a much needed diversion he glanced down at his socked feet, cuffed by the ankles to some bar he couldn't even see down there. Separating a man from his well-broken in boots was just _wrong_. In fact, it was demeaning and degrading. Especially in this well-shod company. His boots were about a metron away from him, crumpled over, looking conspicuously empty and maybe a little forlorn. It definitely added insult to injury that they were in sight and out of reach. Overwhelming fatigue, pain, a growing despair and a prevailing impression that maybe there was an alternate destination for the Fleet other than this planet dominated his tormented and socked feet existence.

He was really beginning to _hate_ Earth.

"Starbuck? You okay?" her voice called softly. "Hang in there. Not much longer."

"How would you know?" Mason demanded, his voice cutting through Starbuck's haze of misery.

Starbuck couldn't help but smile, however briefly. Lauren annoying Mason had that effect on him. If fact, it was his remaining bright spot in an otherwise dreary existence. Gutsy and wilful, she reminded him of both her father and sister. Now and then Dayton's daughter would check in, offering a word of encouragement or concern, while he was staring into the black pit of despondency. It had taken her only a few centons to ascertain his identity when she had first boarded the helicopter. But his defiant attempt at communicating with her had resulted in his ineffective gag being initially removed, only to have a balled up piece of rag shoved into his mouth, and the gag once again secured as Mason sat across from him, staring at him thoughtfully. He seemed to be waiting for something, but what?

Mason was moving them away from New York City, that much was clear. But from what Starbuck could recall, this part of the eastern United States was so heavily populated that the Anakim's so-called "Anointed Lord" could be taking them anywhere. Lauren seemed to know where they were headed though. At least he hoped she was right and his suffering would end soon.

"I know more than you're comfortable with, which I presume is why I'm still alive," Lauren returned brazenly, taunting the director. Her voice sounded far away, which was a little alarming since she was all of a couple metrons away from him. "Washington, DC. One of three seats of power for the New World Order. The others being Rome and London."

Starbuck gruellingly raised his head to watch Mason's reaction. There was none. That alone spoke volumes.

"Director!" one of his men called from the front of the helicopter.

Mason looked forward expectantly, and then quickly joined him. What was happening now? And exactly how was it going to imprint Starbuck's current situation?

Starbuck dropped his head again, allowing his heavy eyelids to close. At least his _eyelids_, unlike the rest of him, had free range of motion. Actually, so did his toes, now that he thought about it. He flexed them rebelliously, catching Lauren's eyes on him again. He'd celebrate any possible movement for the moment, considering it one of those secret little victories that Mason wasn't even aware of.

Uh . . . how had he gone from Washington, DC to eyelids and toes? Evidently, he was losing track of what he'd been thinking about. It could be early dementia . . . or the cumulative effects of several days of abuse and sleep deprivation. But he was a _Colonial Warrior_. One of the very best. This was nothing _he_ couldn't handle. Except maybe losing those boots. He forced his mind back to the consideration of what Dayton's daughter had said, refusing to dwell for too long on personal discomfort.

According to Lauren and Mason's back and forth sniping, the capital city of the United States was also a seat of power for the Anakim's Universal Government, otherwise known as the New World Order. It bespoke the level of penetration of Mason's people into established governments. And, from what he'd gathered by the flow of conversation, the only person who could identify the members of the Anakim with any accuracy was sitting across from him, Mason's prisoner. Somehow, against the odds, Starbuck _had_ to turn this around. He had to free Lauren and get her to the right people. But at this point, he wasn't even sure who the right people _were_. He was relatively certain they hadn't covered this in the regulation manual. He could feel a rising panic begin to envelop him. There was something in the manual about panic being a negative influence during torture. Yep, another incredibly useful bit of regulation manual trivia leaping out of his memory to help him through a sticky situation.

_Easy, Bucko. Opportunity has a habit of staring you in the face. You just need to recognize it when it does._

A hand grasped him by the chin, tilting his head upwards. Starbuck's eyes flew open. Mason squatted in front of him, his penetrating gaze scorching him, searching for something. For a moment it seemed that the man could see right into his soul, laying bare his worst fears. It was more unsettling that the Anakim leader wasn't saying anything. Actually, Starbuck found himself fervently wishing that the guy would just start raving at him maniacally again to divert his attention from his own discomfort and building unease.

Mason nodded slightly.

"We started off badly, Captain. Personally, I blame it all on misunderstanding and circumstance, mostly contrived by my enemies. I _am_ a reasonable man, in fact, given the chance I believe you will see we have more in common than you could possibly imagine."

Starbuck opened his eyes wide in disbelief at this new approach, wondering what had precipitated it. "Tell me another one, pal," he tried to mutter into the wadded up cloth sticking to the roof of his mouth. It came out unintelligibly, even to his ear.

Mason smiled.

"All the Anakim want is global governance, Captain. Coherent, rational unity. Surely, that sounds familiar to a man from your Twelve Colonies. You're aware of the advantages, surely. A streamlining of the bureaucracy. No more international wars. Just think of the money that could be saved and diverted from protecting borders. Instead, it could be utilized it for socio-economic development of the masses, and for eradicating poverty. Space exploration. A single solid currency. So many salient reasons that your own people figured out long ago," Mason purred in his ear. "We're striving for unification, Captain. Don't you see? We're following in the footsteps of our kindred ancestors, showing the rest of Earth's people the way. Now what, my Colonial brother, is wrong with that? We Anakim want what your people were able to achieve. You and I, we really aren't so different."

"Excuse me, Director Mason . . ." Lucifer began.

"Oh, give me a break! Don't listen to him, Starbuck!" Lauren spat. "You're worlds apart! His people have been manipulating and killing people across the world for millennia in order to destroy liberty and freedom. Every time an individual stepped forward to try and get the public to open their eyes, his kind would intervene, either assassinating them or labelling them traitors and villains. They even set up their own propaganda machines like Wikileaks, trying to make people believe they are independently and internationally run alternate media sources that leak classified government data, while all the time they are feeding people complete and utter crap, and destroying those that might interfere with their goals. We all know that propaganda is like rat poison. Ninety-five percent of it is tasty, healthy food, but the purpose of it is to get you to swallow the other five percent, the poison. So they feed us a bunch of old stories that people in the know are already aware of, and then use that to convince Joe Public that what's on the menu is tasty, healthy food. Except it isn't. Buried in the delicious, albeit past the expiry date morsels, are the bits of poison that the New World Order knows we will no longer accept at face value from the controlled media, but hope we will eat if handed to us by a con artist posing as hostile to their agenda."*

"Shut up, Dayton, or I'll gag you too," Mason threatened her quietly, releasing his grip on the warrior's chin while still staring insistently into his eyes. "I heard your speech at the UN, Captain, and our Cylon informant here told me the rest." Lucifer's oscillating eyes slowed almost imperceptibly. "When your exodus finally comes to an end, your people will need a home. I assure you in all honesty that our current national governments don't want a hundred thousand refugees arriving on their doorstep, especially knowing they may be preceding a death force of Cylons. Those are the deliberations that you _missed_ in the Security Council chamber after you left. President Gibson might seem like the boy next door, but he'll be no friend of yours when the Cylon threat is no longer imminent. His allegiance is entirely circumstantial, based on his knowledge that you alone can defend us from that Cylon Base Ship in Earth's orbit. Face it, Captain, individually, none of our national governments could handle the burden of your people's mass immigration or rationalize it to their taxpayers. On the eve of the United States' Independence Day, that's what they concluded at the United Nations after you spoke. After all, you are strangers. Actually, worse than that, you're _aliens_. The average citizen would argue that it isn't _their_ problem. They won't drop a coin in an extended hat on their local street corner, never mind take in what's left of an entire nation of struggling refugees. If you have a difficult time believing that, just look at how you've been treated so far by those in power."

Weirdly, it made a certain amount of sense. In fact, he'd heard Ryan and Dayton say similar things when they'd had a few too many asteroid whiskeys and were speaking candidly. What if when the Fleet arrived at Earth they were turned away? What if they had crossed the galaxy for naught? Vaguely he recalled Dayton and Ryan discussing an old Earth biblical legend about a woman heavy with child being turned away at several inns and having to take refuge in a stable to give birth to her child. It had stuck in his mind, making him wonder about the benevolence of humanity on Earth. Just because surviving Colonial citizens looked to Earth as a refuge amongst their own kind didn't mean that Earth would feel the same way. They would either be turned away or treated as second-class citizens. Lords, it would kill Commander Adama on the spot.

"Why would leadership under the Anakim be any different, you're wondering. I can see it in your eyes," Mason continued. "Unlike President Gibson, we would welcome your people because your people carry the ancient bloodlines that throughout the millennia have been diluted and polluted here on Earth. While leaders like President Gibson think of your people as outcasts and displaced persons, _I_ recognize they are descended from the Lords of Eden themselves. When I look into your eyes, I can see the fortitude of the exalted staring back at me. I know what you have survived since arriving on Earth, and I have spent long hours reflecting on that, as I can only imagine _you_ have. I finally concluded there is a _divine_ reason. You, my Captain, are a prophet and a saviour, a forerunner of tomorrow, sent to make me see the truth beyond my own limited knowledge of the heavens. I have been shown that you are to be spared, that you will join our numbers, that you will reign victorious with us as our blood brother."

"Starbuck, that is all so much bullshit!" Lauren protested, before Mason waved a hand. A micron later the woman was being ball-gagged and restrained with her hands in front of her, setting Starbuck's teeth on edge once again as he watched helplessly. Such treatment of _any_ woman went against his grain.

"I did warn you, Ms. Dayton," Mason told her while she snarled at him incoherently.

Starbuck had felt that same defiance when he'd first been restrained. But now he was finding it harder and harder to separate his mind from his situation. Especially with Mason squatting in front of him, drawing him back in. He groaned involuntarily through the gag as a wave of pain, frustration and exhaustion battered him. At this point a relatively pleasant Cylon Brain Probe or Cold Cell was looking good. Why was it that humans could torture their fellow humans so much more effectively than Cylons? Why was it that they were willing to? What was wrong with mankind? _Especially_ here on Earth.

Unexpectedly, the Anakim leader reached up over Starbuck, releasing the binding that had wrenched the warrior's arms up behind him. The pain was intense as his stiff shoulder and arm muscles abruptly shifted positions, and the blood began flowing back into deprived tissue. He groaned through the gag, and then surprisingly Mason began rubbing his shoulders, easing the transition. The director's touch was clinical, and it was clear he'd rubbed down aching muscles before, but if Starbuck wasn't cuffed to his seat he would have fallen out of it from shock.

"What are you doing, Director?" Lucifer demanded, standing up.

"Do not question my authority, Commander Lucifer," Mason replied. He stopped the soothing motion and held his hand out to Miller. The "policeman" placed an intimidating looking weapon in it, along the lines of a Cylon pulse rifle, but no doubt without the laser. Starbuck sucked in a breath between his teeth, expecting the worst, despite Mason's assurances he was to be spared. Across from him, Lauren's eye opened wide with fear as Mason turned and pointed the weapon directly at her. Above her on the monitor, the same scene was playing out. They were recording it! The director smiled sadistically, but Lauren refused to look away from him, even as her slender frame began to tremble. Starbuck stiffened, trying to get to his feet in a futile attempt to stop the insanity, but a firmly restraining hand from Miller subdued him far too easily. He screamed Colonial obscenities into his gag as a last resort.

Lauren turned her gaze to him.

Blue eyes locked on brown, cutting off his diatribe. Instantly, he was reminded of his recent narrow brush with death on Morlais. It was only ten days or so ago when he had locked eyes with Dayton, while the cold metal sting of a Cylon sword touched the back of his neck as a Cylon centurion lined up its blow for Starbuck's beheading. He had found strength in Dayton's steely gaze, which had given him to the courage to die with honour, instead of quivering in fear. Thankfully, his execution had been halted, but still the gesture had been a gift of friendship that he'd never forget. Now, helplessly restrained, as his friend had been the previous secton, that same strength, conviction and focus were all he had to offer Dayton's daughter in her final microns.

She nodded at him slightly, as though she understood. Visibly, she collected herself, straightening her shoulders as her eyes bored into his own, seeking something there he could only try to bluff his way through. Then her trembling stopped, as her courage replaced her terror. He nodded at her, strangely proud of her, despite barely knowing her. She was indeed her father's child. Then the Anakim's "Anointed One" glanced at each of them in turn, taking two steps back, tightening his finger on the trigger. Starbuck's stomach took a gut-wrenching plunge, but he refused to tear away his gaze from Lauren's. She held her breath.

_Please Lord _. . .

* Michael Rivero

xxxxx

"Report!" Dayton ordered, stepping into the Control Centre with Jess on his heels.

"Commander, the _Ravager_ has just about had it. Colonel Apollo reports fires burning out of control, consuming the Base Ship." He put a scan of the enemy up for his CO. In the infrared, they could see the heat signatures as fires chewed the guts out of the _Ravager_. Some were perilously close to her engines. "It's only a matter of time before at least one of her fusion reactors blow," Dorado informed him. "She's done for, sir."

"Have our squadrons pulled back?" Dayton asked.

"Yes, Commander. They're finishing off what's left of the Cylon squadrons."

"The _Ravager_ is changing course, Commander," Cadet Sagaris reported, looking up from his station. "It looks like they're heading on a vector for . . ." he paused as he examined his data on screen, "for Earth's moon, sir."

"The moon?" Dayton replied. "Why in hell . . .?" He turned to his bewildered daughter, eyebrow raised in question. It took him a moment to register that everyone in the Control Centre was speaking Colonial Standard and Jess didn't understand a word. He hastily translated.

"Because we have a lunar base there!" Jess replied, barely registering the control hub as concern for her people rose to the forefront of her mind. "A last minute gesture to kill out another three-hundred and eleven Earth people before they bite the dust?"

"Machines bent on revenge, apparently," Dayton replied, nodding his thanks as Porter ordered up a languatron from the science lab. He switched to Colonial Standard. "Hail the _Ravager_ and get me my Cylon suit!" Dayton ordered.

"Dress Golds?" Porter suggested, collecting the hollow Cylon armour from their last performance. "I take it you have an idea, Robo-Cop?"

"Something that Jolly said. It's a long shot, but it might just work."

"The story of our lives."

"Don't I know it."

xxxxx

Once again, Cassiopeia looked over the biomonitor readouts, unconsciously frowning as she noted the climbing pulse, and dropping blood pressure, despite her best efforts. Bit by bit, tissue on a cellular level was being methodically destroyed, and there was nothing she could do to stop the process. Slowly, she was losing Xenia.

The woman's eyes flickered open and she looked around anxiously. "Is he here?"

"Not yet," Cassie replied, pasting on her best reassuring smile. They were still in battle and even if they weren't, the word was that Starbuck was planetside. She hadn't even been able to get word to him that one of his cadets was dying from a Cylon pulse laser blast, and that her last wish was to see him. "He'll make it."

Xenia smiled humourlessly. "Of course, he will. He always does, doesn't he? After all, he's Starbuck. When . . ." She broke off, hacking. "When doesn't he?"

Cassie didn't know what to say to that, instead opting to give the woman a bolus of analgesic as the warrior began to stiffen with discomfort. Once again, the med tech adjusted the drip rate of the medication.

Xenia sniffed at the awkwardness, then patted Cassie's hand sympathetically as her tortured body began to relax. "I'll hang on. As long as it takes. I need to know."

"Know what?" Cassie asked.

"The truth," Xenia whispered, her eyes drifting shut under the influence of the narcotic. "He owes me that. I need the tr . . . t . . ." Her body went limp.

"Holy frack, Starbuck," Cassie murmured, as she watched the shallow rise and fall of the mature cadet's chest, "what happened between you two?"

And did Luana know about it?

xxxxx

Mark Dayton had promised himself that the theatrics were over, but with the _Ravager _on a vector that would put Earth's _Armstrong _Lunar Base in danger of being impacted when the Cylon Base Ship finally blew, he needed to dust off the ole Cylon suit once again.

"How do I look?" he asked Porter, pulling on the gold centurion's helmet, hoping the oscillating red light was functioning normally as his friend checked him over.

"You look marvellous," Porter replied, already in his own centurion armour, but without the helmet, as he made some adjustment on Dayton's. "Absolutely _marvellous_. Kinda sexy, even. If you didn't smell like scorched wires and lubricants, I'd kiss you."

"Thank God for Cylon smells, then. You know what today is?" Dayton asked, before glancing over at Sagaris. The cadet nodded, confirming he had the Cylon commander on the unicom.

"Hard to nail that down floating up here in space . . ."

"July fourth. Independence Day."

"Really?" Porter smiled. "Are we going to have fireworks?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely." Dayton grinned. "Am I oscillating, Porter?"

"Just like Knight Rider's Trans Am."

"So this is the whole KITT and caboodle then?" Dayton asked, nodding in satisfaction as the corrugated tubing for the helmet assembly was tucked in under the torso assembly.

"Who has more fun than us?" Porter returned with a grin, smacking the top of his friend's helmet. "You're good to go."

"Not without a can opener," Dayton replied, watching as Porter pulled on his own helmet to stand dramatically in the background of their Cylon "set".

"We're ready, Commander," Dorado inserted, looking at the scanner. "Distance from the _Ravager_ to the lunar base is one point five maxims and closing."

"How about some bodies?" Dayton suggested. "We're supposed to convince the Cylon we turned this battle around."

"I volunteer," Dorado replied, unfolding himself on the deck, playing dead.

"Show time," Dayton said.

A moment later, an image of Syphax filled the screen.

"_You are not Malus_," the IL stated over the comm.

"Affirmative," Dayton replied, his word affecting a Cylon tone through the magic of the vocal modulator on the Unicom. "I-am-not-Malus."

"_I was told that Commander Yugra was no longer in command. Who are you_?"

_Oh shit!_

xxxxx

"Lost him? What do you mean you _lost_ him?" General Roach demanded, his face flushing red.

"I don't like it," Dickins added, frowning.

The squadrons had returned to McGuire Air Force Base, but the Colonial strike captain wasn't with them. From all reports, Starbuck had bailed out and then effected a near impossible rescue of a civilian on the Brooklyn Bridge, just before part of it had crashed into the East River. After that, he and the woman had been set down on a pier with a New York Police helo in sight. That was the last anyone had seen or heard from him since the surviving Cylon Raiders and Colonial Hybrids had headed back for Earth's orbit.

"I told you over the radio, New York City Police N914P0," Grae replied, climbing down from the Lightning cockpit.

"Are you sure about the serial number?" Roach double-checked as the three men started crossing the tarmac together. "Records show it's undergoing repairs at Floyd Bennett Field."

"Sure, I'm sure. What did NYPD say?" Ryan asked.

"Besides them having more on their plate right now than one down-time chopper?'

"Well . . ."

"_Or_ that they had better things to do than trace two survivors that were still in one piece, you mean?" Roach returned.

"Ah, c'mon. Didn't you lay that Chief of Staff charm on them, and threaten to pull their tonsils out through their assholes?" Grae grinned.

The general's answering glower confirmed he'd done just that. Then Roach added: "With grappling hooks. But I got nothing."

"Well, there _is_ a disaster going on," Ryan pointed out.

"I don't like it," Dickins said again.

"General," an officer jogged up to them. "We've got a Detective Lieutenant William McKay from the Nutley Police Department on the line. He claims that he knows something about Captain Starbuck's disappearance. Apparently, McKay's sister, a trucker who uses the handle, Snow White, was the woman that Captain Starbuck rescued from the Brooklyn Bridge. She said she heard your name mentioned when he was speaking at the UN Complex. She'll only talk to you, sir."

Roach sighed, gesturing for the officer to precede him. "Snow White in Nutley. Why do I feel like I'm on the latest reincarnation of Candid Camera?"

"We often have that effect on people," Dickins replied, following.

xxxxx

Starbuck was certain he was about to see Dayton's daughter get splattered all over the wall of the helicopter, but instead, at the last micron, Mason suddenly turned. He fired twice on the IL, unleashing some kind of heavy-duty projectiles on Lucifer.

The Cylon was hurled backwards, sparks shooting out of the chest plate as it teetered back towards the edge of the chopper, its red lights dimming. Mason stepped forward, kicking out with surprising agility and force, knocking the Cylon out the door where it disappeared from sight, plunging to the ground below. Starbuck glanced up at the security monitor, watching as Lucifer was impaled on a flagpole atop a stately white building. The American flag was flying at half-mast just below where the cyborg came to rest. Now what in Hades were the odds of _that _happening?

"Hmm, rather symbolic, don't you think?" Mason said. "Capture that and send it to our public relations department, along with the security feed of me destroying Lucifer. I want it broadcast on every sat-phone, television and computer ASAP."

"Yes, sir," Miller replied.

Mason handed the weapon back to Miller. He sat in the empty seat next to the Colonial Warrior, leaning towards him companionably as though they were two old friends discussing the latest triad rounds. Across from them, Lauren looked both relieved and bewildered. For a change she looked as confused as Starbuck.

"I never aligned myself with the Cylons, Captain," Mason said. "I didn't even know they existed until recently. I only used Lucifer for information, the way that your commander has been using you."

Starbuck's head shot up at that.

"Your commander _is _an Earthman, is he not?" Mason reminded him. "Commander Mark Dayton of Chicago, Illinois, late of NASA, before that of the U.S. Air Force. An inbred ingrate, just like his daughters."

Starbuck tried to control his instinctive reaction to Mason's words. Dayton may have been a total equine's astrum in some ways, but they had been through _way_ too much for him to not want to defend his friend and mentor against any unjust accusations. However, there wasn't a lot he could do about it right now, other than stare daggers, hoping that somehow a little Empyrean magic might give them sustenance. An amused smile spread over Mason's features.

"Ah, I've hit a nerve. I can _see_ that," he said, reaching behind Starbuck's head and beginning to undo the gag. "Listen carefully now. The situation you find yourself in is largely due to a _misunderstanding_. You simply fell in with the wrong crowd when you landed on Earth. I need to straighten out a few things, and make you understand that you're on the _wrong_ side, albeit innocently."

Lauren raved incoherently through her gag, shaking her head at the warrior. Mason ignored her as he removed Starbuck's gag and eased the wadded up cloth from his mouth. It was a blessed relief, since inside of his mouth was drier and rougher than the sun-baked tarmac at the main landing field on Borallis in the height of summer.

"I can tell you respect your commander and hold him in high esteem," Mason said softly, nodding as one of his officers handed him a bottle of water. Slowly and purposely he began to open the cap. "But you need to realize that the people of Earth, and those of our mother world, are on divergent paths, and have been since the dawn of creation. Mark Dayton is driven by his need and motivation to get himself back home. He's like a carrier pigeon, inexorably impelled to return to Earth." Mason paused, searching Starbuck's eyes as he rested one hand on Starbuck's shoulder and tipped the bottle slowly to his parched lips. The first taste was pure nectar. "Think about it, Captain. I'll bet you can remember instances where you realized that your commander would put _his_ people above your own, risking all of your lives for his own selfish determinations. Does anything come to mind? Take a moment to reflect as you quench your thirst, my Captain."

As the ambrosial water snaked down his throat, the thought leapt unbidden into Starbuck's consciousness. When Dayton and his men had first been found on the pirate asteroid, the Earthman had almost single-handedly planned the destruction of the _Galactica_, with himself aboard. Starbuck would never forget the moment he realized that Apollo and Boomer on the asteroid base were about to be blown to Hades Hole, and that the blast would destroy the Battlestar that protected the Fleet, leaving their civilians relatively defenceless. To his credit, Dayton had at the last moment intervened to stop his own murderous plan, citing a visitation from the Ship of Lights as his provocation for coming to his senses. However, it had left Starbuck with an unshakeable scepticism regarding the Earthman, and had motivated him to become Dayton's personal watch daggit until enough water had passed under the bridge—as Dayton liked to say—that he had relaxed his unrelenting scrutiny. But how could Mason know about that?

Starbuck moved his mouth away from the water bottle, a cooling stream running down his chin, dripping off the end. "How . . .?" he began to rasp, coughing when the water went down the wrong way.

"Easy, now," Mason said, patting him on the back. "Mark Dayton has had two objectives: mislead your people and return to Earth. Think about it, Captain. _Really _think about it. You want a home and a future for your people, a place where they can rebuild their lives, their culture, and traditionally worship the way they have for millennia. I'm honestly telling you that in this current cultural and political environment, it's impossible. Even amongst Earth people, there is hatred and intolerance between cultures and creeds. Hatred that runs as deeply as that between your people and the Cylons. Your people are looking for sanctuary, but instead they will find condemnation and bigotry here in the current political environment. However, we Anakim have been working to change things. Many times in Earth's history we have come close through war, creating empires that upheld our traditional class systems, which the late Lucifer assured me dominate your society. Imagine that here on Earth _common_ men aspire to hold office! Is it not preposterous?"

That did surprise Starbuck a little. The Council of Twelve had almost exclusively been selected from Colonial lines of nobility. You could count on one hand the number of times since Unification that someone new, someone from outside the traditional bloodlines, had achieved a seat on the Council. It _was_ their way.

"For the first time, we are on the brink of uniting _all_ Earthmen under a Universal Law through political means, instead of force. Gradually, we intend to reinsert the class system that is so necessary to create peace and harmony on Earth, as it did in your Twelve Worlds. If your ship, our deliverer, were to join me, it would cinch the deal. I give you my word of honour that when your people finally arrive at Earth, that under my leadership they will find a home here. How could I promise that? Well, just minutes ago over a secured frequency on our radio I was informed that I have been appointed as the new Secretary-General of the United Nations. My colleague, and the current American ambassador to the United Nations, has stepped down in my favour."

Lauren went ballistic.

"That shouldn't surprise you if you're as informed about the Anakim as you claim, Ms. Dayton. We _are_ the United Nations, after all," Mason told her, voice slightly condescending. "It's a historic day, since it's the first time that a national representative of the Security Council will serve as Secretary-General. A treaty with the Colonial Nation and a plan to ease their transition on Earth when they arrive will be at the top of my agenda once that Cylon ship is destroyed."

Lauren glared at him.

Mason smiled, not even acknowledging her. "Join me, Starbuck, and as a descendent of the mighty Anakim, you will share our prosperity, inheriting what is rightfully yours. We will shape and mould Earth in the image of our great mother world, as it should always have been. But to do so, we will need to relieve your commander from duty. He stands in the way of Earth's Unification. You understand that, don't you? Like most of his ilk, he's an American first and foremost. He will put his nation's independence before all else. He would _never_ accept Unification."

Starbuck looked at Lauren and the hostility in her eyes made him realize Mason was right about that. All those debates between Dayton and Ryan where the Canadian teased the American about his apparently limited and self-centred perspective abruptly came to mind. Wasn't this the very day that the American nation celebrate their independence every yahren, the same way that the Colonials celebrated their unification? Hadn't Dayton talked about immigrants being expected to integrate and assimilate? Hadn't he despised those that hadn't learned their language or adopted their culture? Frack, why hadn't any of this occurred to him before? He and Dayton had aligned themselves first to survive Torg and his pirates on the asteroid base. Their friendship and camaraderie had continued as they fought side by side to destroy Cylons, and then to find Earth. But was all common ground behind them now?

"I presume that your crew is mostly made up of Colonials who would be motivated towards ensuring a safe and nurturing home in the future for your people. And that you carry some weight with them as their strike captain. According to Commander Lucifer, your record is impressive, to say the least. Is that information accurate?" Mason asked.

Starbuck nodded, swallowing hard, trying to find his voice as he tried to get it straight in the swirling maelstrom that was his mind. Again, he glanced down at socked feet, still cuffed to the bar as he tried to find fault with Mason's words. "Of course, but Dayton . . ."

"If you wish it, I will give you my word that I won't harm him," Mason assured him, this time gently pushing him forward and then reaching behind him to release the wrist restraints. "Slowly now, the change of position will be painful."

And it was. Bit by bit, Starbuck brought his arms forward, barely registering the bleeding around his wrists as his muscles went into spasm, screaming painfully. He held his breath, feeling a gradual shaking building in his frame. He felt light-headed. Sick. Especially when he envisioned him and the Earth astronauts on opposing sides . . .

"Head between your knees, soldier," Mason said, pressing Starbuck's shoulders firmly, but gently forward until he was again doubled over. The director stood beside him, again beginning a dispassionate massage of spasming muscles. Strong fingers kneaded the flesh beneath his flight suit, making him groan in pain and relief at the same time. Finally, the fuzzy feeling around the periphery of his existence faded. Gradually, Starbuck's head began to clear. But something still didn't seem _quite_ right. He licked his lips, a residual acrid taste on them. He glanced at the water bottle on the chair beside him. Another twenty or so just like it would quench his insatiable thirst . . .

"You said that the . . . the United States current administration wouldn't support Unification. What about the other nations?" Starbuck asked.

"Other Earth nations have been moving towards the inevitable for over half a century. First we had the European Union. Quickly, it was followed by the Union of South American Nations, the African Union, the Pacific Union, and the Asian Union. I'm not sure how familiar you are with our political history, but the road towards a North American Union has been more difficult. Men such as your commander and President Gibson live in a past where they fiercely hold on to outdated ideologies and symbols that set the United States apart from other nations, isolating it. Their so-called _tolerance_ of other cultures is dependent on knowing that theirs is the dominant one. The only way to ease the way for Unification in this crisis situation is to eliminate those in opposition by way of relieving them of power and position."

"You make it sound like you're ready for that."

"Politically, we are poised to act. Our membership is strong in world leadership already. If the public understood that your Colonial battleship would continue to defend us against more impending Cylon attacks—especially seeing the devastation of Mexico City, Las Vegas and New York—then they would support the change. There would be little any opposing world leader could do about it. A show of allegiance between you and I would forge bonds that will secure your people a real future here on Earth, I give you my word."

"A show of allegiance, huh?" Starbuck murmured, his gaze drawn back to the final set of restraints holding his ankles in place.

"Choose, my Captain," Mason added, squatting down in front of him once again, this time releasing the restraints. "Your people or your commander. A hundred thousand or one. If you Colonials align yourselves with the Anakim, the imposing might of your warship could very well prevent a worldwide revolution here on Earth as we Anakim strive towards Unification with you as our allies. Not only will you be giving your own people a home, but also billions of lives here on Earth will be spared when they realize the futility of opposing the inevitable unity of Earth's nations. We _will_ ascend to power. We _will_ take our rightful places as the Lords of Earth, just as our forefathers—yours and mine—did on our motherworld so long ago. What do you say, Captain? Can what remains of your war-torn nation rely on you to do what's right for them? To secure them a place to call home? Do we have an understanding?"

Starbuck cleared his throat, licking the bitterness off his dry lips as he straightened up slowly and glanced once again over at Lauren. It looks could kill both he and Mason would be deader than the hopes and dreams that President Adar had once engendered through an armistice with the Cylons half a galaxy away. Mason pressed another water bottle into his hand and he took a swig of the cool contents, feeling it slake his thirst, ease his throat and wash away any doubts as to his course of action. He ignored Lauren's incoherent scream of protest as he met Mason's eyes. "Not until you give me my boots back."


	60. Chapter Twenty Two: Part Two

Dayton's mind suddenly went blank when Syphax demanded who he was. Only one point two maxims from the Armstrong Lunar Outpost, they had to get the Cylons to change course before impact. Fortunately, one thought of his best friend hastily corrected the abrupt mind wipe that paralysed the usual silver tongue of the _Endeavour_ commander, inspiring him in a general direction.

"I-am-Commander-Vodka," Dayton adlibbed, ignoring the sudden eruption of a hiccough from Porter. "I-order-you-in-the-name-of-the Imperious-Leader-to-abruptly-alter-course-on-a-gamma-vector." A ship the mass of the _Ravager_ would take too long to reverse course, but shifting it away from the lunar base would afford them the time and distance they needed to spare the small outpost.

"_Who are you to issue orders to me_?" Syphax demanded over the comm. "_I have my orders, Commander Vodka_."

"Which-were-distilled-over-a-centi-yahren-ago," Dayton reminded the Cylon. "Much-has changed-within-the-Alliance, which-is-why-the-_Harrower_-was-sent-to-pursue-and-stop-you. Again, I-order-you-to-change-course, Commander-Syphax. Obey-or-lose-command-of-your-ship. NOW!"

"_This is a ruse_!" was Syphax's determined response. "_Maintain course_!"

The Cylon wasn't buying the bluff, but then Dayton hadn't expected him to.

"Sixth-nested-memory-file!" barked Dayton, praying his memory of Iblis' words to Malus back on Mars was accurate. "Execute-instruction-sixty-six!"

As long shots went, he was probably better off betting on Ryan becoming the spokesman for the Sobriety Society, than counting on the evil one's "kill phrase" working on _every_ IL of that class. Beneath his Cylon armour, he crossed his fingers, his toes and everything else he could shift without seriously injuring himself. Almost miraculously, like Malus before him, Syphax's lights fluttered, then went dark. The cyborg shut down. Now, if Dayton understood anything about Cylons, deactivation would be damn impressive to the subordinate class of centurion.

"In-the-name-of-the-Imperious-Leader, I-am-assuming-command-of-the-_Ravager_!" Dayton barked over the comm, waiting only a moment before a centurion took Syphax's place. "Alter-course-on-a-gamma-vector! Best-speed-now!"

"_By-your-command_."

xxxxx

"I don't believe it," Apollo said from the cockpit of the Hybrid, watching the _Ravager_ slowly begin to alter course, gradually moving away from Earth's moon. Given the amount of damage the Cylon vessel had soaked up, it was remarkable she had any manoeuvring capability left.

"Seeing is believing," Baker said behind the two warriors.

"Now how do you figure they managed to pull that off?" Dietra mused aloud, checking the scanner for verification of the naked eye. Sure enough, the enemy vessel was slowly picking up speed and veering away from the moon.

"I'm sure we'll hear all about it," Apollo guessed, watching as Jolly's Hybrid targeted and destroyed the last enemy Raider. He activated the comm. "Rooke, how's your fuel?"

"_Low_," the Phoenix leader replied. "_But we can make it back to our base ship_."

"Then let's go home," Apollo ordered. "Phoenix Squadron, you have priority landing in Gamma and Alpha bays."

"_Aye, sir_."

xxxxx

"Why the hell don't you believe me?" Bruce Johnson demanded under the hostile stares of acting Barstow Station commander, Tom Curtis, as well as the latest arrival from WASA, Allan Carter. Initially, Doctor Mufti and Dillon Trent had also wanted to question the Barstow survivor, but the sanctity of the Life Station and the protective nature of its staff had cut his visitors down to two.

"We didn't say we _don't_ believe you, Johnson, we're just saying it's _hard _to believe that someone who's been with WASA for thirty years—like Sam Chung—living and breathing life into the Mars program almost single-handedly, would blow up his own station," Carter replied. "Try to see it from our point of view."

"You're just looking for a scapegoat!" Johnson replied defensively. "Well, I'm not volunteering! There were only a few people with enough security clearance to deactivate those safety measures on the reactor's coolant system, and I wasn't one of them! I'm not even fully rated on the reactor system!"

Carter grunted as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Who else had clearance?"

"Obviously, Commander Chung did. As second in command, so did I," Curtis said. "So did Johl and Knutsen in engineering."

"But of the four of you, Chung was the only one who blew his brains out," Carter added.

"Allegedly," replied Curtis with a pointed look at Johnson.

"And of the four of them, Curtis is the only one still alive," Johnson returned. "Ever consider that, huh?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Curtis demanded, his face flushing angrily.

"Only that if you want to start ascribing blame, maybe you should look in the mirror!" Johnson snarled. "You're not pinning this on me! Check the logs, and just see who's been logging extra time on the commcircuit home! Maybe . . ."

"And the logs are on another planet, thirty-some million miles from here. Kind of convenient, don't you think?" Curtis spat.

"You're going to have to leave," Cassiopeia inserted over the languaphone, walking angrily towards them. "This is a Life Station, not council chambers! People need their rest."

"Sorry, Ma'am," Carter apologized, grabbing Curtis' arm. "Unless the Colonials found Chung with a bullet in his head when they were searching the base, we might not get to the bottom of this until we return to Mars."

"I know," Curtis growled, forcing himself to calm down. "But as far as I'm concerned, that's only circumstantial evidence at best. Anyone could have shot Chung in the head." Again he looked at Johnson suspiciously.

Johnson's mouth gaped open in disbelief.

"That's enough!" Cassie said sharply, inserting herself between the visiting Earthmen and her patient. "If you don't leave now, I'll have security remove you. Get out of my Life Station!"

It was a collision of cosmic forces such that the universe hadn't seen since the Great Powers had clashed with Iblis millennia ago over Earth and Mars. This time the battlefield was the planet Empyrean, and she shuddered beneath the onslaught, continents rent apart by her shifting core, tectonic plates created in an instant, spewing steam and magma into the sky. Landmasses were pulled in different directions, while mountain ranges either hurled in ruin or thrust up where none had existed before. The crust of the planet was torn away from her core, nature's ensuing fury devastating what fragile life had budded since the Cylons had ripped the world to shreds sectars before. Celestial warriors for evil and goodness unleashed limitless energies at one another, one bent on destruction, the other merely fulfilling her destiny, as the planet below screamed aloud in its agony.

And, silently, the Great Powers watched.

xxxxx

"_Angry accusations from both sides of the aisle here on Capitol Hill are calling for President Gibson's resignation in light of the new President's inaction during the early stages of the Cylon invasion. Inside sources say it was only the courage, determination and decisive action of the Director of National Intelligence that allowed American defences to organize in time to turn back strike forces over New York City, Chicago and Los Angeles. Such leadership in a time of chaos and uncertainty makes it seem only natural that the former Director Mason was only an hour ago appointed by the General Assembly as the fourteenth Secretary-General of the United Nations, making it the first time ever that an American has held office. Previously, the Secretary-General could not be a national of any of the permanent members of the Security Council, of which the United States is one_ . . ."

"That's the biggest load of horse shi . . .!" Dickins exploded, while his eyes widened in astonishment as the story went on to broadcast footage of Mason finishing off the IL Cylon known as Lucifer. In an unwinding series of events that could have only been staged, the IL went on to plummet to his "death" from a helicopter, ending up impaled on the flagpole atop of the . . . "Holy crap! The White House?"

Roach nodded, gritting his teeth. "Yeah."

Hummer watched tensely, trying to make sense of the unfolding scene without a full grasp of the language.

"The symbologists would love that," Grae Ryan inserted.

"How so?" asked the general.

"I remember L.M. talking one night about how according to Masonic and Occult symbologists, certain points in Washington supposedly form a Devil's pentagram. I forget most of the other landmark points, but I do vividly remember her saying that the White House formed the fifth and bottom point of the pentagram, which was supposed to symbolize the spirit of Lucifer."

"The spirit of Lucifer," Dickins repeated, still looking at the image of the skewered IL. "You know, those damn Base Ships are in the shape of a pentagram. There's got to be a reason for that other than coincidence."

"Where exactly do we draw the line between symbology, reality and Iblis?" Grae Ryan returned.

"You two are getting weird again," Roach pointed out. "I don't have time for weird. I need to get to Washington."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Dickins asked. They had been holding back, waiting for some kind of lead as to Mason's whereabouts since finding out about his abduction of Starbuck. "We know he has Starbuck, and now we know they're in Washington, D.C. Let's go!"

"As Secretary-General of the United Nations, Mason now has diplomatic immunity. So do his staff," Roach replied, considering his options. Official channels just didn't seem to be the best way to go. He didn't know whom to trust anymore.

Dickins swore softly under his breath.

"And if members of the House and the Senate are agitating for Gibson's resignation in the middle of an international disaster, I'm willing to bet that Mason is going to try to push forward Samael Asar's agenda for Universal Government," Ryan added. "That's why he's there! To address the Congress!"

Roach scoffed aloud. "He doesn't have that kind of support in Congress!"

"Are you _sure_ about that?" Ryan countered, glancing back at the news report. "Lauren said President Gibson was put in office because they thought they could control him. When they realized they were wrong, they blew up Air Force One trying to assassinate him. Didn't you say yourself that both the Secretary of Defence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff seemed to be working with Mason?"

"Why in the hell isn't _that_ on the news?" Roach demanded, pointing at the screen. "Not to mention the fact that Mason is moving towards a worldwide political union on _Independence_ Day!"

"Because _they_ own the media," Ryan replied. "Mason is an international hero now, not a cloak and dagger boob. It's all in the presentation of the propaganda, like everything else they've been feeding us on the mainstream news for as long back as we can figure. If we don't find a way to either murder or discredit Mason soon, Earth is going to be in big trouble."

"_Going_ to be?" Dickins asked.

Hummer stood up, moving closer to the image of Lucifer. He frowned. Then smiled.

xxxxx

Apollo burst into the Control Centre of the _Endeavour_ with Baker on his heels. All eyes were glued to the real time scans of the Cylon Base Ship. Infrared indicators were off the map. The _Ravager_ didn't have much time left. Beside Commander Dayton there stood a tall, slender, and quite beautiful woman whom he recognized from the holo-vid they'd seen on Planet "P". It was Jessica Dayton, the commander's oldest daughter, apparently unharmed from her encounter with the Cylons. She was speaking over the communicator, but her words were coming out mostly unintelligibly. He could pick out only a few words of her Earthspeak until he drew close enough to hear the translation on the languatron someone had just activated.

"Hutch, if you're not talking to me from the nuclear shelter, get your ass down there right now!" she ordered. "Or I will kick it myself on my first opportunity!"

"_When we saw them coming at us like a ticking time bomb on steroids, we didn't think there'd be any point_!" came the reply. "_A million gross tons of alien ugly! We were sure they would impact __. . ."_

"Well, look again! They've changed course!" she said, her voice steady but determined. "Hutch, there's no destructive blast or thermal radiation when one of these ships explode in the vacuum of space, but there's still _nuclear_ radiation! I don't have any definitive answers about the degree of attenuation over distances or how you'll hold up under our usual shields. Your best chance after screens at maximum is that shelter!"

"_Understood, Jess! I've already evacuated most of the crew to the shelter. The rest of us are on our_ _way!_ _Hutch out_."

"They have supplies and rations to last them six months, providing they make it," Jess told them.

"What kind of shielding do they have?" asked Porter.

"The usual radiation and electromagnetic protection, but it wasn't designed for short-range nuclear explosions. Also, there's a plasma deflector shield in the event of solar flares or cosmic ray bursts. The emergency shelter is a hundred feet below the surface, under solid rock and lined with lead." She watched as the _Endeavour_'s computer ran through an algorithm, holding her breath until she saw the outcome. She frowned at the final formula and then glanced at Dorado. "What does that mean, exactly, Captain?"

"_Are_ they far enough away from the lunar base?" Apollo asked, joining them.

"Not knowing the precise specs on that shelter or the screens, it's theoretical at this point, I'm afraid," Dorado replied. "Any chance the base could send them to us?"

"Everyone will be down in the shelter by now," said Jess. "If you can put me through, I could get the specs transmitted up here from Baikonur."

"Do it," said Dayton to Pierus.

"Is there any risk to _Earth_?" Jess asked, tucking her hair behind an ear as she leaned over the comm station to help.

"Not from nuclear radiation, it's three hundred and ninety thousand maxims away," Dorado replied.

"Maxims? I'm not following . . ."

"Roughly a space kilometre," Commander Dayton told her. "Just over two hundred thousand miles, Jess."

"What about us?"

"Our shields are up. We'll be fine," Dayton replied before turning to Baker. "Have fun?"

"A blast," Baker replied. "Hey, maybe it's kind of late in the game to mention it, but has anybody taken into account the effect of the EMPs on Earth when that baby blows?"

"Should we?" Dorado asked. "I guess I'd just assumed it wasn't a consideration."

"Oh, shit," Dayton winced, running a hand over his face. "Jess, when I left there had been over twenty years worth of commissions formed. Reports almost as thick as Paddy's skull were piling up on desks recommending hardening key infrastructure systems and procuring vital backup equipment in the event of EMP terrorism. Did they _do _anything, or are they still just _talking_ about it?"

Jess straightened up, giving Pierus some room. "WASA has a Space-Based Solar Monitoring and Alert Satellite System in deep space which includes a satellite-based multispectral sensor package to monitor the entire solar electromagnetic spectrum. However, that's more for detecting long-range solar flares than EMPs at close range to Earth. We're more concerned with protective measures right now. As far as the United States goes, and keeping in mind the Cylon impact, the Defence Satellite Communications System, the Air Force Satellite Communications System and the Navy's Fleet Satellite Communications System are fully hardened and operational. Besides that, the Military Strategic Tactical and Relay Satellite and all their military communications satellites are state of the art, second only to WASA's," Jess replied with more than a little pride. "The command, control and communications systems of western tactical commanders should be secure in the event of massive EMPs. The European Union, Japan, China, Brazil, Canada, India, Russia, Australia, and South Korea would be in similar states of readiness. That said, your own Captain Starbuck recently used strong microwave bursts of a precise frequency to blind Cylon scanners over Kazakhstan, and before that we used a WASA electromagnetic pulse beam system to knock down an F-35 over the Atlantic Ocean, but bear in mind, military secrets being what they're _not_, we had an inside line on its weaknesses. Obviously, they're still effective weapons."

Dayton raised his eyebrows at that. It was news to him that his daughter was knocking down F-35s from the sky.

"Go on," Baker encouraged her.

"You're Lieutenant Colonel Robert Baker, aren't you?" Jess asked him.

"Sure am, but I'm retired," the astronaut replied. "Call me Bob or Baker. I don't use my rank anymore."

Jess nodded. "The biggest weakness all along has been civilian industry, since EMP hardening adds significantly to the cost of any new system, and retrofitting would be even more expensive. No matter how often civilian industry was warned, big business is all about the bottom line, except in a few rare cases where CEOs recognize the potential monetary loss involved in all computer and communications systems going down. I'm talking the big guns like British Petrol, General Electric, AT&T. You get the idea." Nods from the Earthmen present indicated that at least they understood. "Anyhow, I guess what I'm saying overall is that I don't know how EMPs from an exploding Base Ship will compare to solar flares or cosmic ray bursts that have randomly hit Earth in the last fifty years. I _think_ we're protected, at least in the major western centres, but only time will tell for sure. It could be disastrous."

"The only other possible solution would be to send someone back to the Base Ship with the Clavis and beam the _Ravager_ into another dimension," Coxcoxtli suggested. "Or maybe back to Cylon."

"Not half bad," Baker chuckled. "That'd sure solve a few problems."

"Volunteers?" Porter asked cheerfully.

"We don't have time for that," Apollo said decisively.

"Apollo's right, although I like where you're going with that, Coxman. Where would an EMP blast be concentrated?" Dayton asked.

"Here," Dorado replied, pointing to the screen.

"South Asia," Porter relayed. "Looking at the bright side, it could potentially be a lot worse over Europe or North America."

"Yeah. Earth is going to have to ride this one out," Dayton replied, turning to his executive officer. "Colonel Apollo, this is my daughter, Jessica Dayton."

"Director Dayton," Apollo nodded, extending his hand.

"Call me Jess, Colonel. I don't stand on ceremony," the WASA director said agreeably through the languatron she'd been given. Briefly, she grasped Apollo's hand, but her attention was divided between the _Ravager_ limping across space, pulling further away from Earth's moon at an excruciatingly slow velocity, and waiting for a reply from WASA. She was all business.

"Good job out there, Colonel. Losses?" Dayton asked him.

"Seven Hybrids destroyed, Commander," Apollo replied, handing over his datapad. "Two more limped in with extensive damage. Those four warriors were unharmed."

Dayton frowned, glancing over the data that listed the fourteen Colonial Warriors that had lost their lives in combat. He let out a long slow sigh. Most of them were kids. Like all kids in all wars, they were goddamned cannon fodder.

"And Cadet Xenia is still critical in the Life Station," Dorado added. "And, according to Cassiopeia, asking to see Starbuck."

There was a moment of silence as those present pondered the cadet's possible reasons. Starbuck being Starbuck, most silently came to much the same conclusion.

"Is Xenia going to make it?" Apollo asked.

"No." Dorado shook his head. "She took a Cylon pulse laser blast to the gut while on the Base Ship."

Apollo winced, holding memories at bay of Serina on Kobol. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You could find Starbuck," Commander Dayton told him.

"He was dangling off the Brooklyn Bridge when we last saw him," Baker filled in.

"He was _what_?" Dayton said.

"I think I'll let Starbuck tell that story," Apollo replied with an amused smile.

"I could probably help with finding Starbuck when we get through to WASA," Jess offered. "I'm on good terms with General Roach, the US Air Force Chief of Staff. He'll know where Starbuck is."

Thousands of kilometrons away, the fires aboard the _Ravager _had done their work. The last of the cooling pumps in her main engine room shut down as the power cables burned through. The heat climbed faster and faster, and even blowing the outboard valves to vent the excess drive plasma was not enough. One of the reactors reached its limits and . . .

"Director Dayton," Pierus said, hand to his headset. "Baikonur Mission Control . . ."

"Finally! Here we go . . ." began Jess, crossing to the comm station.

"Hold the phone," Dayton said quietly, eyes on the console.

On infrared scan, levels on the _Ravager_ peaked. The ship glowed an orange-white just a micron before its fusion reactors exploded, tearing the ship apart, incinerating all aboard. On video scans, the Cylon warship's lower hull split open, spewing light and debris, as she tore her guts out. The ship blossomed into a ball of vicious, ugly light, boiling into space. On scanner, the blip that had represented Earth's all-time greatest threat simply disappeared off the screen. Cheers of victory erupted from the _Endeavour_'s crew while Pierus shook his head at Jess.

The WASA director looked at the cadet expectantly.

"I lost them."

"Damn!"

xxxxx

Mason had undermined him. The Director of National Intelligence, a man who preceded his own presidency and whom he'd once respected, had actually plotted to have him killed. He'd even broken one of the longest standing rules of the United Nations in becoming the first American national to be appointed Secretary-General. Currently, the cigarette smoking son-of-a-bitch was obviously scheming behind the scenes to have Congress force Gibson out of office, and so it was with abject incredulity that the President of the United States realized he'd soon have to welcome the former Director of National Intelligence as an honoured dignitary! The newest Secretary-General of the United Nations was en route to Capitol Hill.

"We should be _arresting_ Mason, not rolling out the red carpet for him," said Elizabeth Smythe, his White House Chief of Staff, pushing her glasses back up her nose. On Capitol Hill for the last twenty-five years as a political consultant and senior advisor, she'd made recommendations for politicians ranging from freshmen senators to presidents in her career.

Privately, Gibson thought they should _shoot_ Mason instead, but refrained from voicing his opinion, lest it somehow ended up coming back to bite him in the ass should his presidency somehow survive this political upheaval in the middle of an attack from homicidal space aliens. It was a little surreal, and at this point he was just hanging on for dear life, keeping his hands and feet inside the cart at all times, as men toiled to remove the same Cylon that had spoken at the United Nations the night before from a flagpole from which it had been impaled upon outside the White House. Gibson inclined his head at Terry Foreman, the White House Counsel. "Terry?"

"With the lack of evidence, I'm afraid all we have against Mason right now is a bunch of allegations. He covered his tracks well, or had other people do it for him. Listen to the representatives at the UN and they'll tell you he's the Second Coming in an Ivy League suit and tie. This sudden uprising in the House and the Senate is coming together too smoothly, too easily to be unplanned, sir. The players were put in place long ago, but I think those of us still welcome in this room could see that coming," Foreman said, looking around at the conspicuously empty chairs in the Oval Office.

Jim Wright, the Secretary of Defence, and Jack Edwards, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had already voiced their criticisms loudly concerning President Gibson's "whishy-washy leadership abilities". Notably absent, they were regrouping with those trying to force Gibson out of office. Vice President, Owain Beglau, had already "leaked" word to the media that should Gibson step down due to "personal issues" that he would be prepared to assume the presidency.

Smarmy little bastard.

Smythe nodded. "I heard a United Nations security detail arrived at the West Front to secure the building, preceding Mason's arrival at the Capitol."

"What?" Gibson demanded, surprised that his White House Chief of Staff would have this data. Obviously, she still had contacts on the Hill. "That's preposterous!"

"_And_ were cordially admitted and given access to the Capitol's security systems. The Speaker of the House is demanding Mason be heard," Smythe added with a curt nod. "Next they'll be handing them the key to the White House."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Gibson replied with more conviction than he felt as he gazed steadily back at her.

The door to the Oval Office opened. Leon Goldman, the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff walked in. His uniform was rumpled on his gaunt frame, and he pushed unruly, curly salt and peppered hair back from his forehead. "My apologies for my lateness, Mr. President. Both WASA and NORAD have confirmed the Cylon Base Ship has been destroyed."

"Well, thank God for that!"

Goldman set a portable holoprojector on the table and activated it. The images were reconstructed from surviving satellites. It showed the Cylon warship heading straight for the moon, and then suddenly veering away before ripping apart in a blast of intense nuclear fire.

"And the Colonial vessel?" Gibson asked.

"According to WASA, still in one piece, Mr. President," Goldman replied, "although they reported some battle damage. More pressing is the electromagnetic pulse that resulted from the nuclear explosion."

"Directed where?" Smythe asked.

"South Asia. China, India and Pakistan have already reported loss of telecommunications and power grids in rural areas. Major centres still have an intact infrastructure. However, it's likely a different story in Bangladesh and Nepal."

"Likely?"

Smythe's smile was fleeting. "We haven't heard. Internet and Sat Phone nodes are out from Tehran to Rangoon."

"Of course," Gibson replied, slightly abashed. "I suppose it could have been much worse."

"Yes, sir. It could have been _us_," Foreman replied.

"WASA also reported there's a risk of nuclear radiation to the Armstrong Lunar Outpost crew, but the crew have evacuated to their shelters," Goldman continued. "They'll give us an update when they have it. "

"WASA seems to have become our unofficial liaison with the Colonials," Gibson inserted.

"Well, Jessica Dayton_ is _Commander Mark Dayton's daughter," Smythe replied. "Blood being thicker than water and all that claptrap."

Gibson nodded, finally feeling like he was among people who would speak frankly.

"Also, sir, with your permission, I will assume the duties of Jack Edwards," Goldman continued. "He's thrown in his lot with Mason."

Gibson's jaw tightened. He and Edwards went back a long way. Hell, Edwards had first encouraged him down the path of candidacy for the presidency! The betrayal stung worse than he wanted to admit. He nodded. "Of course."

"Where's the Colonial Warrior?" Smythe asked. "Captain Starbuck."

Gibson looked at her curiously, wondering where _that_ had come from. "I don't actually know . . ."

"Here in Washington," Goldman replied. "Mason snagged the captain in New York City, as well as Lauren Dayton in New Jersey."

"He has L.M. Dayton?" Gibson asked.

"Yes, sir. The Colonial commander's youngest daughter. I presume he would have used both her and the Colonial Warrior as negotiating collateral, in case he didn't secure the position of Secretary-General in the United Nations."

"Hostages?" Gibson asked in horror.

Goldman nodded. "Yes, sir. Now with the UN backing him, I can only guess that he'll try and manipulate the warrior into forming an alliance. Imagine Mason pleading the case for world government, backing it up with the Colonial warship as some kind of invincible defender of everything he represents. If the Colonials align themselves with Mason and the UN, we're dead in the water."

Gibson blinked. "I spoke with Captain Starbuck personally. He _offered_ the allegiance of the Colonial Nation to me." It occurred to him that they were looking at him almost pityingly.

"Those were early days when all that was at stake was whether or not the Cylons would blow us to Smithereens. I'm willing to bet Captain Starbuck never imagined he'd find himself in the middle of political anarchy, where the UN was trying to form a worldwide authoritarian government smack in the middle of an extraterrestrial Armageddon, sir," Goldman said.

"Mason wouldn't dare," Gibson attempted, feeling the eyes of the three on him. "He doesn't have that . . . that kind of support . . ." This time they looked at him as though he was a dull-witted schoolboy. "_Does_ he?"

"Mr. President, did you ever in your wildest dreams imagine that you'd see _Mason_ as a replacement for Samael Asar?" Goldman asked him, taking a seat beside his colleagues. "People don't ask questions when they're struggling to survive."

Gibson groaned.

"How's it look, Leon? Do we have someone in place?" Elizabeth Smythe asked, pushing a strand of her hair back behind her left ear.

"We do, Liz. I just don't know if we should get him to try and _turn_ the Colonial, or to just eliminate him," Goldman replied.

"_Eliminate_ . . ." Gibson repeated in shock.

Looking at the three, President Gibson knew without doubt that he was way out of his league. Admittedly, he was new to the Presidential Office, but somehow he realized instinctively that these three people knew far more about what _was_, _had been_, and _would_ be going on in politics than he _ever_ would. Over the years, people had alluded to a core group of powerful worldwide figures with a secret agenda of re-educating people brought up on nationalism to the idea of relinquishing part of their sovereignty to a supranational body, but he'd never believed it. He'd never thought it was possible . . .

"What's going on here?" Gibson demanded. "How do you know all this? Who exactly _are_ you people?"

Leon Goldman looked from the White House Chief of Staff to the White House Counsel. His expression spoke volumes, and in turn the others nodded. Before Gibson could so much as take another breath, Goldman leaned forward in his chair, letting out a long sigh. "Mr. President. We need to let you in on a secret."

"A . . . a _state_ secret?" Gibson asked, feeling a mingling of fear and horror tingle its way up his spine. This was beginning to feel like one of those political thriller movies his wife so enjoyed.

"It has been a secret of many states, Mr. President," said Smythe. "Very many."

"A secret that goes back millennia," Goldman replied. "A secret of Brotherhood."

xxxxx

"So this is what they look like, huh?" the Emergency Response Team officer from the Uniformed Division grunted from below the flagpole at the White House. "Imagine a whole race of these . . . things."

"Race, huh? Doesn't a _race_ have to be living and breathing, Dylan? Doesn't a _race_ have to be human?" Officer McNamara replied, helping manoeuvre the robot into the back of a Uniformed Division sports utility vehicle. "Flesh and blood."

"Maybe it's time to expand the definition," Bains replied. The robot seemed heavier than he had expected for its size.

They'd tried to cut through the robot to get it down, but whatever it was constructed from was impervious to their hack saw, their band saw, and they hadn't brought the plasma cutter. Even their hydraulic cutter had given up the ghost when the pump had blown. Finally, they had used a crane to mechanically lift the robot back up the way it had come, the softening of its heated metallic composition giving way to mechanical force.

"I like the _old_ definition," Dylan replied. "It was simpler. What do we do with it now?"

"We have orders to take it to the holding area at the North Gate," Bains replied.

"Whose?"

"From the top. Let's go."

"Right." They tossed a tarp over the machine. "Say, you hear something?"

"My stomach rumbling. Let's go."

xxxxx

_Internal chronometer __. . . __main operating system inactive fifteen point six centons __.__.__.__ reinitialise main operating system __. . ._

_ Main power cell damaged __. . . __unresponsive __. . . __reroute to alternate power source __. . ._

_ Main system not responsive __. . . __backup system diagnostic __. . . __backup system diagnostic __. . . __on-line __. . ._

_ Command-servo pathways off-line __. . . __reroute __. . . __reroute __. . . __reroute __. . ._

xxxxx

"We just heard the final word; NORAD confirmed that the Cylon Base Ship was destroyed by your Colonial capital ship. The Cylon threat is eradicated," Mason told Starbuck in the back of a long, sleek Earth vehicle that was transporting them to the place where the United States federal government convened. Outside darkened windows, a pristine landscape with green spaces and stately buildings whizzed by in a near blur as they sped down city streets in Washington, D.C. It looked so clean and untouched in comparison to New York City. Starbuck was reminded of Caprica City before the Holocaust.

Beside him, the Secretary-General leaned forward, opening a panel. Within was a complete bar and multi media system. Starbuck snorted softly at the indulgent opulence in the back of a vehicle, reminded of earlier days on the _Rising Star_. Satellite imagery came to life, depicting the _Ravager_ exploding in a massive burst of light. Starbuck instinctively recoiled, closing his eyes, expecting the blinding blast of light that had accompanied other capital ship explosions. It was hard to believe that he'd sat most of this battle out while planetside. Hades Hole, it rankled. As a warrior, he preferred being in on the kill. Still, the distant victory was a relief. One less ship full of Cylons in the universe. At the same time, however, the _Endeavour_'s strike captain couldn't help but wonder how _his_ shipand her squadronshad fared.

"Any word on the _Endeavour_? Has Commander Dayton attempted communications?" Starbuck asked, while shrugging into a dry, clean uniform in the generous back seat of the "limousine". It fit perfectly. Mason smiled unctuously at him as the warrior mused about where it had come from.

The uniform was either his own or an exact replica, and Starbuck wracked his brain trying to remember where and when he'd last seen it. It took him a moment to remember it had been in the back seat of Mitch's taxi, which, when last seen was lying at the bottom of a lake in some agro community. Apparently, one of Mason's men had been there picking up his dirty laundry, along with the boots that had been returned to him back at the Air Force base.

He sat back and finger-combed his hair roughly into place, only to have his hands pushed assertively aside as "Leigh" began fussing over him again. Assigned to "cleaning him up", the attractive and impeccably put together older woman was apparently adept with hiding all evidence of the numerous bruises and contusions received either at the hands of the Russians, General Roach, Mason's goons or the various bridge cables and other obstacles he had been bounced off. Starbuck glanced across at Lauren, who was still glaring lasers at him. A rough bandage was wrapped around her wounded leg and he took note of her good colour. She remained gagged and restrained, which was probably just as well at this point.

"Yes, the uniform is yours, Captain. I trust it's been mended and cleaned to your satisfaction?" Mason asked, omitting the fact that his people had obviously infiltrated the US Air Force. "And no, your commander hasn't contacted us yet."

Which made a guy wonder why _not_.

"Meanwhile, with what's left of the satellite network slowly getting back up and running, the media on this side of the world is already blanketing the airwaves with stories of victory and triumph. Among those are captured images of some of your heroic adventures here on Earth, most notably your rescue of that female trucker on the Brooklyn Bridge, Captain," Mason continued. "Both Russian and American pilots are singing your praises for your skill and leadership abilities. I swear there's nothing like a decisive victory and an honest to goodness hero to take peoples' minds off disaster. By the end of the day, my succeeding Samael Asar and the official formation of our Universal Government will be secondary to the news blitz about a Colonial Warrior arrived here to save humanity from the Cylons." He sniffed in amusement as he withdrew another cigarette from his case. "As a bonus, an international coffee conglomerate known as _Starbucks_ has already replaced their logo with a caricature of you in your Colonial Warrior uniform. Your image will be indelibly etched into our collective consciousness by the end of the day."

"Isn't that a little over the top?" Starbuck asked.

"Not at all. Once we get you looking a little more presentable, we'll record a holographic message to your commander, assuring him that you're among friends and informing him that he's only to deal directly with the United Nations Secretary-General. To simplify lines of communication, you understand. We'll also do a couple brief interviews with you responding humbly to the accolades. Is that clear?"

"As clear as condensed tylinium," Starbuck replied as Leigh finished shaving him, and then began wiping something with the texture of rubbing compound onto his face with a small sponge. He grimaced, pressing himself back into the seat with hands raised into an admittedly pathetic posture of self-defence. She pushed them down determinedly as she worked on covering every cubic centimetron of his face with the pasty substance.

Chimes of Hades Hole, it was like being prepped for the _IFB_!

"Condensed _what_?" Mason asked.

"Tylinium. It's a virtually impenetrable transparent alloy, a substance we use on view ports. Standard lasers can't penetrate it," Starbuck explained. "Sort of like the stuff Leigh's putting on my face."

The make-up artist paused to grin at him before resuming her art.

"I see," Mason said.

"That's the idea," Starbuck added.

"Please try to be still, Captain," Leigh instructed him.

"Right," Starbuck agreed, trying to make himself relax under her ministrations, while wondering what he would come out looking like. Some sort of awful Mattellion Action Figure came to mind. The Iceman. Rara Avis. Hades, even Crawlon Man! Lords, Boomer would laugh himself out of the cockpit if he ever got wind of this!

"Captain, I'm assigning Miller as your personal body guard," Mason told him. "After that attempt on your life outside the United Nations Complex, I think it best."

"I feel safer already," Starbuck replied, not bothering to point out it was probably one of Mason's men who had shot him. He nodded at the burly officer who had tried to throw him out of the helicopter following Milligan's unfortunate plunge to the ground. Of course, Starbuck had repaid that kindness by attacking Miller later, using the element of surprise and his momentum to thrust the man backwards into a security monitor. They weren't exactly on the best of terms, which had more than likely been factored into the equation.

"I'll take good care of you, Captain," the officer replied, a professional mask in place.

"I'm sure you will," Starbuck returned, keenly feeling the absence of his Colonial weapon. Obviously, he was to be kept on a short leash for the early stages of this tenuous alliance.

"I need to cut his hair, Secretary-General," Leigh inserted with a frown. "It's unfashionably long for Congress and not very respectable looking."

"True," Mason replied, studying the warrior. "How attached to your hair _are_ you, Captain?"

"On a follicular level, _very_," Starbuck returned. The mature blonde-haired woman reached for her tools of the trade, pausing at his response. "Seriously, I guess I'm overdue for a cut. Leigh, if you think it will help persuade your bureaucrats that I'm a more respectable ally, then do it. After all, you seem to be the image expert here." He held her light blue eyes as he shrugged, assuming an aura of indifference as he seemingly put his trust in her.

By the time they pulled up in front of Capitol Hill, he looked like a new man. While the haircut was a bit short by his usual standards, especially on the sides, it certainly didn't come close to the current Earth tradition of buzzing it off before it required any kind of grooming. Leigh had done a good job of covering up most facial bruising, only leaving the cut over his cheekbone visible for the more "rugged" appearance worthy of a soldier. Yeah, with the transformation so complete, he was just so devastatingly handsome that it was hard to tear his eyes away from his own reflection in the mirror. As they drove up, the elegant and majestic appearance of the Capitol Building did just that.

While the overall effect of the stately building was impressive, the large white dome dominating it was magnificent. The entire structure sat elevated on a hill, placing it on a natural pedestal, a little closer to divinity. It reminded Starbuck of some of the more important public buildings back in the Colonies. Again, the similarities between Earth and the other branches of Kobol were manifest.

"What do we do with her, Secretary-General?" Miller asked, nodding towards Lauren.

"Indeed," Mason replied, considering her for a moment.

"She stays with me," Starbuck inserted levelly. "She's Dayton's daughter. There's no better bait to dangle in front of him than a child he hasn't seen for yahrens." Mason looked as though he was about to argue. "That's non-negotiable, Mason. The commander would be suspicious if he knew that I let her out of my sight once we met up."

"If I'm not mistaken, I'm sensing some concern on a _personal_ level. You're not having second thoughts, are you, Captain?" Mason asked slowly.

"No." Starbuck shook his head. "But ensuring a future for my people doesn't have to come at the cost of any more human lives. Surely enough have died already, huh? If you _really_ think you can form your world government peaceably, and get people to climb on board, then it starts here and now. For good measure, you can release her restraints and get rid of the gag. I'll take responsibility for her behaviour."

"Interesting words coming from a soldier," Miller inserted, waiting until Mason nodded before reaching behind Lauren and beginning to remove the gag.

"After a millennia of war with the Cylons, my culture has learned to value each and every human life, Miller. Even the worst among us was worth more than all the Cylons you can imagine." Starbuck held Lauren's gaze, hoping she wouldn't give them reason to muzzle her again. She looked bemused as to what he was up to, and when the gag came off, she held her tongue. It was a minor miracle by Empyrean standards. "Humans reproduce relatively slowly, as we all know. Cylons can replace a million losses in mere days. As a people, we learned to put our differences aside and to work and live together, because if we didn't, we would have been exterminated."

Mason nodded. "It's cultural values like those that the Colonial refugees can help instil in our New World Order. Now, about these Cylons. How great is the risk that we'll see more of them?"

"You heard me talk about the Cylon Edict of Extermination when I spoke before your Security Council?" Starbuck waited while the other nodded. "It's virtually certain that the Base Ship put a high-gain signal out towards Cylon. Now that they know Earth's location, they'll keep coming until every last human being has been terminated, our culture, history and civilizations obliterated, every last trace of our Kobollian roots erased from the universe. At some point we'll have to make a stand. Frankly, most of us Colonials are tired of running, but currently the Fleet doesn't have the resources for an effective counterstrike. The best we could do was engage in hit and run engagements, taking on one Base Ship at a time when possible, usually with escape in mind. Here on Earth, that could change."

"A compelling argument for Congress," Mason added, seeming pleased. "Nothing unites humanity quite like a looming oppressor, Captain. Especially one that has already destroyed two major population centres on Earth." He smiled again. "These are exciting times. I swear that our future never looked brighter, but perhaps that's natural when emerging from a period of darkness." He reached into an inner pocket, and pulled out an object that Starbuck did not at first recognize. Mason opened some sort of faceplate, and only then did the Viper pilot recognize the antique gold chrono. Mason studied it a moment, then slipped it back inside his vest pocket. "We have about an hour before I speak before Congress. Before that we'll organize the interviews and the holographic message to your commander. Do you have any other _desires _we can attend to? Anything at all, just ask."

Starbuck was sure he detected a leer as Mason looked over at Lauren. It rankled him, he had to admit. The guy made the lowest of the Borays look like upstanding citizens, by comparison. She drew a deep breath, opening her mouth . . .

"Medical attention and a change of clothes for Lauren," Starbuck inserted hastily. "After that, something to eat and a place to get some rest for _both_ of us while you're occupied with this Congress." His body _ached_ for rest and no amount of make-up could disguise that fact.

"Of course, my Captain," the other replied with a slight nod of the head. As used as he was to reading people, Starbuck at once could read the contempt and condescending arrogance in the other man. Mason looked over at Lauren, a calculating look flickering across his features ever so briefly. "Our Colonial ally here seems to have developed a soft spot for you, Ms. Dayton. I'm willing to comply with his terms as long as you behave. If you don't, the rules will most definitely change. Is that clear?"

She hesitated a moment as her eyes appraised the Colonial Warrior across from her. Starbuck could tell she had passed the moment where his betrayal was an open raw wound, and now, like everybody else, she was trying to determine how she could manipulate the situation to her possible advantage.

"Lauren?" Starbuck prompted her gently.

Just like a good game of pyramid, it was all about reading your opponents, getting the right cards, knowing how to play the hand, and bluffing better than anybody else in the room as the game progressed. The venue might be different, but the rules were the same.

"As clear as condensed tylinium," she finally replied with a mysterious smile, "_my Captain_."


	61. Chapter Twenty Three: Part One

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Will this do, Captain Starbuck?" the bodyguard, Miller, asked in an exaggeratedly cordial tone, extending a hand through the doorway and indicating the opulent suite within as though he was some kind of footman. Located on the fifth floor of Capitol Hill, the rooms had been designated for the day use of "honourable members", as well as various and sundry other guests and dignitaries. "Early eighteenth century Colonial style."

Stepping past two more of Mason's men, but standing aside for Lauren to precede him, Starbuck finally stepped into the air-conditioned room. Lavish décor surrounded them, and after spending most of his time on Earth in military settings, it was a little overwhelming. From the furniture and floor coverings to the knick-knacks and richly coloured paintings, this was a room designed to impress its occupants. Despite the beautiful artwork and antiques, his deprived senses were quickly redirected to the spread of victuals laid out for them to enjoy on a low rectangular table. His stomach grumbled at the sight and smell of enticing but alien foods waiting for him.

"Did you say Colonial?" he asked as he noticed Dayton's daughter still had a slight limp.

As promised, Lauren had received medical attention and clean clothes, dressed elegantly in an ivory pantsuit that accented her lithe figure and dark hair, now swept up off her face. While Starbuck was occupied with delivering Mason's scripted message to his commander as well as posing for public relations propaganda for the people of Earth, Lauren had had a complete makeover. She looked absolutely gorgeous, and he had to remind himself that she was a mature Earth woman in what Dayton referred to as her middle age. Yeah, it made a guy want to find out more about the Middle Ages on Earth. He curbed the grin threatening to overtake his features. Lords, between the two of them, they looked like some fictitious happy couple from the make believe world Mason seemed to be creating for him. A world where he was a heroic Colonial Warrior, sent to save Earth and any other poor unfortunate soul or damsel in distress from the murderous Cylons, and Lauren was his beautiful companion. Okay, so at this point he felt a bit like a performing daggit. A _tired_ and _hungry_ performing daggit.

"Yup," Miller stepped inside the suite, closing the door behind him, leaving Mason's other men in the hall to stand guard while he took a more personal approach to supervising the couple.

"Historically, our ancestors migrated here across the Atlantic Ocean from Europe hundreds of years ago. We were once colonists as well," Lauren elucidated on the henchman's answer, flipping open a large book on the rectangular table to reveal a map of Earth. She traced her finger across the ocean, showing him the path her ancestors had followed. Although he couldn't read her language, the name she mentioned certainly made him take notice. Her tone, however, was a little distant and cool while he leaned over her shoulder to observe.

_"Atlantic, huh? Our presidential flagship was called the Atlantia," he mused aloud._

_ "Where is it now?" Miller asked._

_ "Destroyed by the Cylons," he replied, before_ moving further to the right and lifting a cover on a warming tray, feeling the heat rising from the food.

Starbuck groaned aloud in delirious anticipation as the incredible smell wafted upward. It reminded him of crisped porcine in the colonies. He ignored the serving implement, using his fingers to pop the strip of protein into his mouth, and then flopped onto the longseat, chewing in delight, before sucking the lingering fat off of his fingers.

"Lords, this is amazing," he murmured, reaching for another slice before asking: "What do you call it?"

"Bacon."

"I could make a meal out of this alone," he said, chewing on another piece before pulling a different warming cover off. He frowned as he saw some kind of yellow sauce covering a rather ordinary looking ovum. He quirked his eyebrows at Lauren.

"Looks like all the makings for Eggs Benedict," she supplied, leaning over and uncovering other hot plates.

"Come again?"

A moment later she was putting various items together and placing a plate down in front of him, almost completing the domestic image. Then she handed him utensils with a silent frown of disapproval as he finished chewing another piece of bacon, once again sucking the fat off his fingers. He couldn't help but grin. Yeah, the conjugal picture was now complete.

"Try it," she coaxed him.

"Where I come from, they only cover things with sauce to disguise the taste," Starbuck returned sceptically. "Either in the Mess Hall or our survival rations." He noticed a slight rise of the eyebrows from Miller. _Yeah. _ _Mess call and survival packs. He's been there. _He turned back to Lauren. "Are _you_ going to have some?"

"Not until I see that you haven't keeled over," she replied with a wicked little smile, standing up to take the chair across from him.

"Keeled? Uh . . ."

"Dropped dead," said Miller, moving closer to the banquet.

Starbuck paused, a half eaten piece of bacon still in his grasp. He put it down on an empty plate. Would Mason try to poison him after using him to lure Dayton down to the UN? No, the man still needed him. Dayton would insist on talking to Starbuck personally. Especially after . . . All the same, the mere thought took away a guy's appetite, no matter how hearty. "Suddenly, I don't feel so well."

"Well, it's not the food. It's untainted," Miller claimed, moving to join them and helping himself to a large portion of bacon and wrapping some kind of carb unit around it. Greedily, he shoved it into his mouth, tearing off a large bite and savouring it. He glanced up at an antique wall chrono before helping himself to the carafe of what smelled like java. "If Mason wanted you dead, I'd have shot you by now. We don't go in for the cloak and dagger crap."

"How reassuring," Starbuck replied, once again rising to his feet and wandering around the room.

"With allies like Mason, who needs enemies?" Lauren stated the obvious.

"You're supposed to watch that mouth, lady," Miller reminded her through another bite of his food. He looked at Starbuck accusingly. "_You're_ supposed to make her."

"You want me to gag her or shoot her?" Starbuck replied, crossing to a closed door. He tried the knob. It wasn't locked.

"Smart ass. I should have thrown you out of that chopper when I had the chance."

"Guess so, because I don't give _second_ chances, Miller," Starbuck returned, biting his tongue just a moment too late.

"I suppose the room is bugged," Lauren changed the subject. "Video surveillance?"

Miller shook his head. "Actually, the room is wired to detect any electronic surveillance and to alert security. As you can imagine, some . . . uh . . . _sensitive_ conversations happen here."

"Yeah, I'm sure they do," Lauren rolled her eyes distastefully. "Congressmen and their bedfellows. Makes me want to cover the furniture in plastic before I sit on it."

"Holy frack," Starbuck said as he pushed open the door and looked inside the sleeping chamber. Through the windows he could see the city stretching out for kilometrons. The room was decorated in the same antique and expensive style as the sitting room with beautiful artwork and accessories, but it was the bed that demanded his attention. The large four-poster dominated the room with a thickly padded surface and covers you could get lost in. He'd crossed the room in a few strides, flopping himself onto the comfortable surface, bouncing a couple times in complete abandon, sighing in self-indulgence as his weary form sunk into the mattress. He let out a moan of complete and utter satisfaction.

"Comfy?" Lauren asked, standing in the open doorway, looking around curiously.

He smiled lazily, patting the surface next to him. "You have _got_ to try this out, it's like floating on a cloud." Then he added quietly for her ears only, "_Pumpkin Girl_."

Lauren's slender form stiffened for a brief moment as she studied him uncertainly. Starbuck crooked a finger at her, beckoning her to him, and then nodded towards the bodyguard in the other room.

"You really _do_ think you're irresistible, don't you?" she said loud enough for Miller to hear, taking a hesitant step inside the room, her hand gripping the doorknob like some kind of lifeline.

"Oh, I _know_ I am," he returned with a roguish grin, seeing the amused smile drift over her features. Few women were immune to that grin, and Lauren was no exception. But considering the way she felt about him just now, would she play along? "Besides, I'm your protector. We both know what Mason would have done to you if I hadn't stepped in. What he could _still _do to your long lost father when he gets him down here. You really ought to be nice to me, for your own sake and his." He patted the bed again.

Out in the sitting room, Miller stood up, looking towards them. A piece of something hung from his mouth. Apparently, he was torn between the feast and what was unfolding in the bedroom.

"_Really_?" she asked acerbically, and then let out a rude snort. "You'd actually force me to . . . Some _hero_."

"I'm just a man," he replied, propping himself up on an elbow. "With appetites that transcend beyond mere bacon."

She made a choking sound. "I was hoping you were actually. . ." she bit off her words hastily. "Betraying my father and now this. I guess you're showing your _true_ colours."

"C'mon, we're both consenting adults," he said, slipping off the bed and slowly walking towards her. "Force doesn't have to enter into this. Unless you _like_ it rough." He paused as she shook her head in denial. "Hey, you seemed to like me just fine back in the chopper. _Starbuck? Are you okay_?" he mimicked her. "Or maybe you prefer your lovers tied up? Hmm?"

She stood there, frozen to the spot. He couldn't read her at all now. He might have gone too far.

"Look, doughnuts! You want a doughnut?" Miller called out, noticing Starbuck's look of confusion and annoyance. "They're sweet!"

"I'm willing to bet they're not as sweet as the lady," Starbuck replied lewdly, reaching out and taking Lauren's stiff and resistant hand and raising it upward towards his lips. Over her shoulder he could still see Miller watching. Instead of kissing her hand, he merely caressed her fingers with his thumb, meeting her eyes. She dropped her chin, looking downward in shame or fear, he couldn't tell which. He ducked his head, leaning in close, whispering in her ear, "Trust me."

Tenderly, he put a finger under her chin, tilting her face upwards. She swallowed hard, a faint tremble running through her as she reluctantly met his gaze again.

He could only hope that his gentle actions and reassuring words negated every lousy thing he'd said to her the moment before as she studied him dubiously. Then he quirked his eyebrows at her, asking permission before he continued. She hesitated for a few microns, and then nodded, the movement barely perceptible. Slowly, he reached behind her head with his other hand, releasing the clasp that held up her hair. Dark, lustrous tresses fell down, framing her face. Idly he fingered her silken hair. "You're a beautiful woman, Lauren," he whispered huskily. "I think we should, uh . . . take a little time to get to know each other better. Seal our new relationship."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this," she managed, swallowing hard, allowing him to take her other hand and draw her further into the room.

"You will be, Sweet Lady, that I can promise you."

Shakily, she looked back towards Miller almost pleadingly. The bodyguard shrugged and looked away, sitting back down, grabbing another mouthful of breakfast. For a moment, she dug in her heels, meeting Starbuck's eyes. "I don't care so much about myself, but promise me you'll do everything you can to make sure my father and sister don't get hurt. I want your word. . . if it _means_ anything."

"You have my word as a warrior," Starbuck replied, closing the door on Miller, and locking them inside.

xxxxx

This whole mission had been a series of bittersweet and eye-opening experiences from the get-go, when Commander Adama had told Commander Mark Dayton that his was purely a military mission to destroy a Cylon Base Ship, and that he was to avoid any contact with Earthmen in favour of leaving it to the bureauticians when "the timing was right". Of course, it had taken _no_ time at _all _for that approach to fall apart when they'd rescued the Barstow astronauts on Mars, followed shortly thereafter by Starbuck situating himself between a Cylon patrol and the Earth Space Shuttle, _Venture_, in Earth's orbit. Other mission highlights had included finding out that the missing _Endeavour_ astronauts had been recorded in history as terrorists who had conspired to blow up the International Space Station back in 2010, Count Iblis showing up and engaging in some kind of duel with Ama for the dominion of the universe, and discovering that the power source of the Clavis, the Espridian device that had transported them through space and time, was actually some kind of energy eating parasitic entity that fed on their capital ship's power systems. Now, they had finally succeeded in their mission and had destroyed the _Ravager_, but it was at the expense of Mexico City and Las Vegas both being blown off the map. He could have eventually learned to live with the disasters knowing that Earth was finally safe, but just now he was getting the idea that the ticker-tape parade he'd been imagining in his near future was a bit premature.

Dayton was getting an increasingly bad feeling as he watched his daughter's drawn and tense features. After the potentially disastrous pulse from the exploding_ Ravager_ had pummelled South Asia, it had taken a while to triangulate a signal through surviving satellite transponders so they could reconnect with WASA. It was a testament to the EMP hardening technology that the space agency employed that their power, computers and communications had survived mostly intact while nearby areas had lost their entire infrastructures.

Jess had been speaking to her Executive Director from WASA down at the Baikonur Space Centre, but had unfortunately lapsed into Russian a few minutes before, leaving him entirely out of the one-way conversation that he'd been listening to before that. To think that the American astronaut had a Russian-speaking daughter that now headed up Baikonur _Space Centre_ was a bit of a mental adjustment for her old man. After all, back in _his_ day Baikonur _Cosmodrome_ played second fiddle to NASA, or so most Americans believed.

"Sergei, slow down!" she said abruptly as Ryan entered the Control Centre.

"I left Carter and Trent in the OC with some of the boys. They're exchanging war stories," Paddy said aside to Dayton.

Dayton acknowledged the information with a brief nod while inclining his head towards his daughter.

"You're speaking too fast, Sergei!" Jess was saying. "Give that to me again. What did Roach say about Starbuck?"

Apollo looked up at that, the words flowing through the languatron like music to the young colonel's ears. They had orders to return to the Fleet once they'd completed their mission, and with the relative volatility of the volton-sucking _Clavis_, sooner was looking better than later. But first they needed to find Starbuck. A dying cadet was counting on it.

"Remember, he always lands on his feet," Dayton said to Apollo.

Apollo shook his head, the lack of sleep over the last few days beginning to wear on even him. "He usually lands on his astrum. _We_ pull him back onto his feet," he reminded his commander.

"We'll find him. We'll just follow the trail of swooning females." Dayton slapped a hand on Apollo's shoulder before turning to Dorado. That was when he'd noticed Luana in the corner. She'd slipped in. Internally, he winced at his quip. To her credit, she merely starred at him levelly before saying something quietly to Coxcoxtli. "Captain Dorado, do you have any results on the specs WASA sent for the moon base?"

"Porter and Baker are helping with the conversions, Commander," Dorado replied, shaking his head. "Nothing conclusive yet."

Dayton nodded, returning his attention to his daughter.

"Okay, Sergei. We'll wait on that. Dayton out," Jess signed off. "Can you handle that, Pierus?"

"Yes, Ma'am," the cadet replied from his station.

"Keep me posted," Jess replied with the confidence of one accustomed to giving orders. She turned to regard her father. "Things have gone to hell in a hand basket down there. The world is reaching its boiling point."

"The EMP?" Apollo asked.

"The EMP is just one more piece of chaos contributing to a worldwide political anarchy, financial collapse and possible nuclear war right now. India and Pakistan are apparently threatening nuclear retaliation on one another, both figuring that the EMP was an attack from the other," Jess replied through the languatron.

"Do they still have nuclear capability if the EMP already slammed them?"

"I don't for sure," Jess admitted. "They could be bluffing or not, it all depends on how EMP hardened they were. As you know, the Cylons already destroyed a lot of communications, military, navigation, reconnaissance, and environmental satellites. Even though the electromagnetic pulse only hit South Asia, even large portions of the western world's telecommunications were knocked out. That has a severe impact upon global monetary systems, which are primarily composed of electronic accounts and assets and rely on accurate timings from GPS to synchronise trades."

"Sounds like a mess," Porter said.

"To say the least. Rumour has it cyber attacks are also happening worldwide, every Tom, Dick, and Harry with an intact computer and a grudge taking advantage of firewalls crashing. They're attacking financial centres, banks, insurance companies, security . . ."

"That doesn't sound random," Porter said.

"Or like amateur hacks," Baker added. "This sounds organized."

"I know. Scary, isn't it?" Jess replied.

"Sounds Old Testament to me," Ryan inserted.

Dayton raised an apprehensive eyebrow at him. They were about to depart on another wild Ryan ride.

"Real wrath of God type stuff with a modern twist," Ryan explained. "Instead of fire and brimstone coming down from the sky, we have EMP pulses, collapse of national infrastructures and monetary systems, escalating distrust, accusations, knee jerk reactions, and now a potential nuclear war portending the End Times. If I was some Wrath of God type preacher, I'd be frothing at the mouth right about now, and loving it."

"Ah, yes. Rivers and seas boiling," Baker added.

"Forty years of darkness. Earthquakes, volcanoes . . ." Porter said.

"The dead rising from the grave," Baker returned.

"Human sacrifice. Dogs and cats living together. Mass hysteria," Ryan concluded.

"Thank you, Dr. Venkman," Dayton sighed. "But it's not wrath of God, Paddy, it's _Iblis_. We _think_ we've saved the world and a series of events that _we're_ involved in once again brings everything to a head. It _has_ to be Iblis. We can't take two steps forward without either taking one back or tripping over him. And here _I _thought he was out of the picture."

"Evidently, he still left his mark . . . Mark," Ryan replied. "But regardless, what's happening on Earth right now with India and Pakistan is the result of mankind's actions, not Iblis'. Ignorance and fear. Pride and malice. As much as we hate to admit it, there's a little bit of Iblis in all of us. And there's a _lot_ in some of us."

"We need a plan to temper the climate," Apollo added.

"Absolutely."

"Meanwhile, to top things off, the United Nations' Secretary-General apparently jumped off the top of the UN Complex because of his reported failure to convince world leaders to unite against the Cylons early enough to prevent the disasters in Nevada and Mexico," Jess told them. "His replacement is none other than the former US Director of National Intelligence, Mason. Have you been picking up any Earth politics since you've been in our system?"

"Some," Porter replied. "We were monitoring your telecommunications. That's how were heard about Starbuck getting shot at the UN, as well as your sister's apartment exploding."

"Well, I'm willing to bet that Mason was behind both of those," Jess told them. "Making him Secretary-General is like putting the Cookie Monster in charge of the cookie jar."

"Then how'd he get the position?" Apollo asked, not understanding the reference, but figuring out the meaning.

"Obviously, the world just went stark raving mad. As you gentlemen so eloquently put it, we have officially achieved global chaos, much of it inspired by Mason if my guess is right," Jess replied. "The average citizen is going to be more concerned with survival while everyone around them is panicking, rather than paying attention to what's going on in world politics."

"Then Mason and Iblis are in cahoots," Dayton inferred.

"Keith Carradine, David Keith and Wendy Malick, actually," Porter said.

"What is this? The Base Ship Movie Database?" Jess groaned.

"BSMDb?" Porter smiled. "Sounds about right."

"Look, I also heard that Colonel General Surkov, the Russian Air Force Commander In Chief, was recalled to Moscow because of a second assassination attempt on President Kuzmin," Jess added. "Turned out the Russian Prime Minister was behind it. Five ministers have stepped down. Seven more are calling for Kuzmin's resignation for what they call 'inaction' during the Cylon attack. One minister has turned up dead in an 'accident'."

"Isn't Russian politics known for its corruption?" Baker asked.

"Not since the thirtieth James Bond movie," Jess replied wryly. "News flash, Bob, Atsuo Hayashi at the Guiana Space Centre has Intel that something similar is happening in the States right now. Mason is supposed to be before Congress as we speak, supporting the call for the resignation of President Gibson. He's pushing for his Universal Government, claiming that with the support of the Colonial warship, he can personally negotiate for India and Pakistan to stand down before things escalate any further over there. He's pushing for Globalism with himself as leader."

"How exactly did _we_ get pulled into this?" Dayton asked.

"Pierus?" Jess asked.

"Ready, Ma'am."

"This is coming in via NORAD," Jess said, looking up at a monitor.

The first image they saw was one Dayton had largely forgotten. Drawn in white on a blue background, it was a map of the world wrapped in a wreath of olive branches. The flag of the United Nations apparently hadn't changed since 2010, even though so much else had.

Then an image of a middle-aged man standing behind a podium appeared. Dressed in a classic blue suit and tie, he looked like any other politician. Behind him were the flags of the United Nations and the United States, leading Dayton to believe this particular broadcast was taking place on American soil.

"_July 3rd__and 4th, 2055 will be dates that will live on in infamy. July 3rd was the date that mechanical beings from another world, another star system, tried to oppose peace and liberty on Earth through the genocide of the human race. And July 4th, my friends, was when all of Earth stood against them, defying them, refusing to succumb. It was the day when our fellow humans, brothers in arms, appeared from across the galaxy, proving twofold that when brought together in purpose, mankind—with our very human capacity for fellowship—has the ability to unite as one. That's a belief the United Nations has embraced since its founding over a hundred years ago in 1945 when we came together to facilitate cooperation in international law, international security, economic development, social progress, human rights and the achievement of world peace. Those are fundamentals that will take us all, together, into our future_."

"_I am Albert Mason. I have the distinct honour of being appointed the fourteenth Secretary-General of the United Nations, and speaking on behalf of all world leaders. I wish to first congratulate the people of Earth for their courage, fortitude and fierce determination that they will never be dominated. I am proud to stand humbly among you, to call you my brothers and sisters. I also wish to thank Commander Dayton and his Colonial Base Ship for coming to Earth's assistance against the Cylon aggressors. I look forward to forging new ties and relations with our Colonial allies, and beg your patience and indulgence while we struggle to recover against the devastation that the Cylons have visited_."

"That's him, huh?" Dayton murmured to his daughter as he half-listened to more of the man's speech, the words having that familiar ring of Earth politics that seemed to numb the mind and the senses.

"Yeah." The word was bitter.

"_It's unfortunate that Commander Dayton could not be here himself, but I would be remiss if I delayed the following any longer than absolutely necessary_. _I would like to present the Romeo Dallaire Award to Captain Starbuck of the Colonial Star Ship, _Endeavour_, for his courage, his persistence and his determination throughout the conflict. His leadership and knowledge were integral in helping Earth's militaries prepare our defences for the Cylon attack," Mason said, stepping forward from his podium and extending his hand_.

"Holy _frack_," Apollo murmured. "Lu, would you look at that!"

She nodded tensely, stepping a little closer to the monitor.

"I guess we found him," Dorado said with a smile.

"He looks good," Ryan said, watching as the young Colonial Warrior stepped into the frame, his immaculate uniform looking as though it had just been issued from Colonial Supply. His hair was cut shorter than any of them had seen before, and even the legendary Commander Kronus would have been proud of him for his mysteriously newfound—almost over the top—military decorum. Starbuck accepted the handshake, and then stood crisply at attention as Mason decorated him.

"_Too_ good," Jess ventured.

Lu smiled in amusement.

"Oh God, not you, too!" Dayton groaned, rolling his eyes at his daughter.

"I mean they've polished him up for the camera," Jess clarified. "He took his fair share of lumps during interrogation before everybody realized he was for real, and the Cylons weren't just a WASA ruse for getting more funding. Remember, they _shot_ him in New York."

"He often has that effect on people," Baker deadpanned.

"You love him or hate him. There's no in between," Ryan said.

"_Shh_!" Apollo hissed.

"_Thank you_," Starbuck said on screen, his voice brisk. "_It's an honour to be recognized, Your Excellency, but what I did was nothing exceptional, merely my duty. I swore an oath long ago to protect humankind, and as far as I'm concerned, humanity has no borders. Make no mistake, each man and woman involved in Earth's defence over the last two days—from those issuing orders to those following them, from those in the very heat of battle to those in civilian support roles—deserves the same recognition and all of our gratitude_."

"Who wrote that?" chuckled Ryan.

"Not Starbuck," Apollo replied.

"_On behalf of the people of Earth, Captain Starbuck, I offer you our allegiance in good faith. May your people find a home and a future here with your Earth brethren_," Mason again shook Starbuck's hand, holding it for a moment.

"_On behalf of the Colonial people and President Torg, Your Excellency, I accept. When the day comes that the Colonial Fleet does arrive, we will be proud to call Earth our home_."

"_President T-T-Torg_!" Dayton stuttered, immediately swept back to the pirate asteroid base and the sadistic, scum-sucking waste of skin that had had tortured him and his men for thirty years. "_Torg_?" he managed again.

"Who's President Torg?" asked Jess. She looked at her father, brows furrowed.

"It's a calculated _tell_," Lu insisted. "Just for us."

"Lu's right. Either our boy has a head injury or he's trying to tell us something," Ryan suggested.

Porter shrugged. "Or, knowing Starbuck, maybe both."

xxxxx

"Why do I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to shoot me?" Grae Ryan asked as he headed across the tarmac at Joint Base Andrews, a few paces behind General Roach. Eight miles east of Washington, D.C., the Naval and Air Force base had previously been the home base of operations for Air Force One, up until the President's plane had exploded in a fireball of fury in an assassination attempt.

Dickins grinned. "Are you having as much fun as I am, kid?"

"No, probably not," Ryan admitted, his lips quirking in amusement at the animation on the old astronaut's face. He glanced back at Hummer, who was tagging slightly behind them.

"Who's that up ahead?" Dickins asked, slowing his pace and nodding towards a suit standing beside a waiting car.

"Leon Goldman. He's the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff," Ryan replied, grabbing Dickins arm and looking around for a potential escape route. They were on a military base; it didn't exactly look promising. However, since it appeared that Jack Edwards, the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff, was working with Mason, chances were the Vice Chairman wasn't here to catch up on the good old times.

"Roach's boss?"

"Roughly," agreed Ryan, relaxing slightly as Roach stopped before Goldman, saluting him first and then shaking the Vice Chairman's proffered hand after protocol had been satisfied. Maybe they weren't about to get arrested, after all. "Why do I feel like I'm walking on egg shells? With nitro in them?"

"Because nobody's shot you yet?" Dickins replied, grabbing the younger man's arm and pulling him forward again when he realized both four star generals were waiting for them.

"General Goldman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs," Roach started to introduce them, "this is Captain Richard Dickins, Major Graeme Ryan and . . . Technician uh . . ." He looked at the Colonial, grimacing.

"Hummer," the Colonial man replied with a faint smile.

"_Chairman_?" Ryan repeated. "Since when?"

"General Edwards wanted to play on the _other_ team it seems. There was an opening, so I'm his successor," Goldman told them. "Captain Dickins and Technician Hummer, we need your help."

"Makes a guy feel suddenly left out," Ryan said.

"Don't worry, Ryan, we'll find something for you to do. Right, Hummer?" Dickins said to the Colonial, who as usual was missing most of the conversation due to the language barrier. He looked back at the Chairman. "What _kind_ of help?"

"We've intercepted a message from Captain Starbuck and Secretary-General Mason requesting that the _Endeavour_'s commander deal exclusively with the United Nations, 'for the sake of clear and effective communications'. Well, let's just say that portraying the Colonial commander as Mason's counterpart isn't exactly conducive to liberty, freedom and justice for all."

Dickins' eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"From what we heard, Mason _abducted_ Starbuck," Ryan reminded them. "I doubt they're on the same side."

"I wish I had your confidence, Major Ryan," Goldman replied. "Wait until you see some of the tripe the UN is spewing out about the Colonial Warrior. They've picked up where the armed forces and the major networks left off on their poster boy campaign. I've even heard UN emergency rations will have his picture and story on them."

"That's a US propaganda machine, not Starbuck," Ryan returned.

"He _does_ appear to be cooperating."

"That's absurd," Dickins said.

"People love their heroes," Goldman replied. "Especially in a crisis. He seems to be relishing the role."

"You don't _know_ Starbuck," Dickins told him. "I'd trust him with my life."

"Would you trust him with the life of every man, woman and child on Earth?" Goldman countered.

"Damn right, I would."

Goldman studied the old astronaut for a moment, before nodding. "Fair enough. Regardless, the reason I've come is because we need you to be our liaison with Commander Dayton, Captain Dickins._ If_ you think he'll talk to you," Goldman asked.

Dickins snorted. "Of course he'll talk to me." He glanced at the Colonial. "What about Hummer?"

"We have the Cylon and we were wondering . . ."

"_Ah_!" Hummer said, face lighting up at the word 'Cylon'.

xxxxx

Once the door closed, shutting out Miller, Lauren put a finger to her lips, effectively cutting off Starbuck's next words. She tapped her ear and then pointed towards the adjoining facilities.

Starbuck nodded in relief. She'd understood he just wanted to get her alone, and some time alone in the sleeping chamber was the obvious cover. However, she was thinking beyond that. Despite Miller's words to the contrary, there was still a chance that the room probably did have some kind of audio system rigged to pick up their words or their cries of passion, as the case may be. The Earth equivalent of a turbo flush, with its noisy running water and overhead rotary systems, would effectively mask their words. He hoped.

"You know, if I have to kiss you, I'd rather you wiped that war paint off your face first," she said aloud. "Up close you look like a clown."

"How about you wipe it off for me, Beautiful?" he countered, following her. The facilities were as grandiose as the rest of the suite, with a sunken marble tub, a stand alone shower for two, and one more turbo flush-like fixture than he actually knew what to do with. It put a different spin on the life of an American bureautician in Congress. Sire Uri would have fit right in here. "Hmm, this gives me all kinds of ideas."

"I'll bet," she replied, closing the door behind them.

A moment later the rotary was on and the water was running in the massive tub, steam rising up from it. Starbuck perched his astrum against the countertop, watching as Lauren wet a facecloth and then wrung it out, before turning to face him.

"Lay an actual hand on me, Buster, and you'll be swallowing your teeth," she warned him in no uncertain terms.

He grinned at her brazen words "Relax, I'm married."

"Really? Someone married _you_? Poor girl." She tossed the cloth at him, turning her back, wrapping her arms around herself in a female posture of vulnerability that made him realize he'd shaken her. "Wipe your own face, asshole."

Starbuck peeled the damp cloth off his shoulder. "Mason would have killed us both, Lauren. I had to _do_ something. Making him believe I was siding with him and his maniacs and betraying your father was my only option at the time."

"Did you have to be so goddamned _convincing_," she returned, her right hand rubbing the opposite arm as though she was cold.

"I'm sorry." And he genuinely was.

She let out a small sniff, still not looking at him.

"I didn't want to scare you, but it had to _look_ real. I was hoping you'd realized in there that it was just an act. You seemed to understand . . ."

"You said 'Pumpkin Girl'," she said to the wall.

"Your pet name. Your father told me." Starbuck shrugged, sighing. "Look, I've been here a couple days. You must have heard about me from your sister. I hoped that somehow you'd realize that you could trust me, despite the fact that I was acting like a mong-raking Boray."

She turned to face him again, letting out a slow breath and taking the cloth from his hand. "Mong-raking Boray, huh? I don't know what that is exactly, but it sounds sufficiently disgusting to be about right." She stepped forward, taking the cloth and rubbing methodically at the 'war paint' on his face, showing him the residue that came off before returning to the task. It was as though she needed something to keep her busy just now as she mentally regrouped from the last couple centars. "You know, I heard about how you saved Jess from the Cylons. And then how you helped turn things around at Baikonur with General Surkov. She trusted you. Believe me, with my sister, that says a lot."

"_I_ need someone to trust too, Lauren," he replied, grabbing her hand and stopping her obsessive cleaning. "And frankly, Mason isn't my first choice, no matter what he said about how Earth might treat my people when they finally arrive here."

"I thought you swallowed that, hook, line and sinker."

"Well, good. You were supposed to," he replied, releasing her hand. He turned to look in the mirror, taking a brief moment to wipe the rest of the make up off his face, once again exposing various colours of bruising with the odd scrape thrown in for variety. "One thing I know for certain about human nature is that we have a large capacity for tolerance, especially when you throw a megaload of sociopathic Cylons bent on the destruction of mankind into the mix. We're at our best during adversity, and we shine brightest when our survival as a race is threatened. Right now, there's a lot we can learn from each other. Earth is isolated way out here. Your solar system is on the backside of beyond, and for now anyhow, that's an advantage. With our technology and your resources, we'll make sure we're ready for the next Cylon Base Ship that comes your way."

"That's all very noble, Starbuck, but right now the future of political rights and freedoms that we've taken for granted for hundreds of years is being challenged three floors down in Congress. I'm guessing that Mason's motion to move towards a Universal Government is going to receive an overwhelming amount of support, especially when they see that you're backing him."

"I thought your President could veto anything in Congress."

"Hmm, is that what you were thinking? Not just a pretty face, are you, Flyboy?" she said. "But a two-thirds majority vote in both the Senate and the House of Representatives can override a Presidential veto."

Starbuck winced. "Didn't know that."

"I thought not."

He sighed. "Do you think Mason has that much support?"

"It's a bit sketchy. I don't know exactly how many Anakim are in Congress. Then there are always those politicians who can still be swayed one way or the other by the right words. While Mason claims that your Colonial warship is with him, maybe he has enough support."

"And if I publicly withdraw my support?"

"Mason would kill you if you did that, Starbuck. You make a fool out of him, and I guarantee it will be the last thing you _ever_ do." She put a hand on his arm as he considered her words. "Before you do anything crazy, there's another group of unknowns out there calling themselves the Brothers of Eden. They helped me when I thought I was a goner. Two of them gave their lives for me. Do you know of them?" she asked.

_Brothers of Eden?_ He shook his head slowly and she looked disappointed. Then it hit him.

"Eden. Wait a centon." He knew that name. Adama had mentioned it at some point. So had Mason. In fact, Mason had referred to the _Lords_ of Eden. "Eden was one of the principle cities on Kobol."

"Kobol? That's your planet?"

"That's the planet the thirteen tribes emigrated from. Twelve to our colonies, the thirteenth to Earth. But I haven't heard of these brothers."

"Then what the Guardians told us is true," she said.

"The Guardians . . . oh, the Beings of Light. The tribunal's still out on that one," he replied.

"Sorry?"

"Let's just say they haven't always been as _forthcoming_ as they could be," Starbuck replied.

She looked surprised by that, and a little troubled. He didn't bother to mention his godmother-in-law was probably one of them. At least, that was what he thought. Maybe.

"So if our long lost brothers, the Anakim, want world domination, what do these Brothers of Eden want?" Starbuck asked.

"They oppose the Anakim," Lauren replied, lost in thought for a moment. Suddenly, she looked doubtful. "They told me my ancestors go back to the first settlers, that my grandfather was a Brother of Eden."

Starbuck nodded. "Your father was told he was a descendent of Kobol by a . . . a Guardian. According to him, your family really are descendents of the thirteenth tribe." He left out the part about the Oculus and how Dayton's ancestor was its Keeper. That was hardly relevant at this point.

"Seems unbelievable."

"But nevertheless that's the story," Starbuck said.

"Interesting choice of words. The 'story' not the 'truth'," she observed.

Silently, he reflected on her words. Truth. It had seemed so black and white when he was young. Now truth was an elusive commodity most often looked for in shrouds of mystery, misunderstanding, perception or lies. He shrugged. "Blame it on my Earthspeak. It seems to me that the first thing we need to do is get out of this gilded cage and somehow get word to President Gibson or maybe even these Brothers."

"Exactly," she crossed her arms over her chest, looking suddenly inspired. "Hey, I know! Let's fly out the window on our magic carpet!"

"Magic . . . cute, real cute," he replied with a sigh.

But she was right again. Miller was in the suite and there were two more goons in the hall. Security had been omnipresent throughout the building with cameras, alarms, irradiated checkpoints and even a meticulous pat down that had left him wondering if he should either pause for a fumarello or ask for a telecom number. Only the box of disposable gloves on the security table and the private examination room had curbed his tongue.

"Well, we have to try _something_. I'll figure something out. I always do," he replied confidently, reaching forward to open the door into the sleeping chamber.

Only to find Miller's ugly mug staring back at him.


	62. Chapter Twenty Three: Part Two

"How's it look, Dorado?" Apollo asked the warrior in the _Endeavour_'s Control Centre.

"With WASA's help, doable, Apollo," Dorado replied, looking up from where he was leaning over Pierus' communications station with Coxcoxtli and Commander Curtis from the Mars station. The Earthman was shaking his head at the technology. "Before the Cylons attacked, WASA had actually hijacked the major satellite communications networks covering Earth to warn everybody that the Cylons were coming, at the same time letting the people know that _we_ existed and were coming to help."

"How did they manage to do that?" Apollo asked, sounding impressed.

"Sounds like some kind of satellite warfare," Dorado said. "Similar to what the Cylons tried during the early yahrens of the war."

"Code name, Killstar," Curtis added with a smile through the languatron. "I didn't really think we'd ever need it, but Jess was right again."

"How does it work?" Apollo asked.

"Coxcoxtli could explain better than I could," Dorado admitted.

"It's the same principle as the EMP we were talking about before, Colonel," the young man said. "It's the electromagnetic transients created by the accelerated electrons."

"Sorry?" Apollo raised his eyebrows. "Could you elaborate on that?"

"Well, simply put, the resulting interior electron currents generate cavity electromagnetic fields that induce voltons on the associated electronics, which produce spurious currents that can cause upset or burnout of those systems."

"So those same satellites were vulnerable to the nuclear EMP from the _Ravager_ exploding," Apollo said, hoping he'd understood all that.

"Yes, sir. Most of them were left dysfunctional, if they weren't already blown out of orbit by Raiders."

"How exactly did the WASA satellites survive? I didn't really understand that part," Sagaris said from his station.

"Their systems had to have been configured with special cables, aperture protection, grounding and insulating materials to survive the transients," Coxcoxtli explained.

The cadet nodded.

"Several of the surviving WASA satellites are still manoeuvrable," Dorado continued, "and coming back on line now. Besides that, they're collaborating with other international government agencies and private companies with still-functional satellites, and they're pirating others."

"Pirating?" Apollo asked in surprise.

"Yes, sir. Commander Dayton's daughter said we don't have time to ask nicely."

"I see." Jess Dayton was a lot like her father, apparently.

"We should be able to triangulate the signal to communicate directly with Washington and New York City soon. We're still working on India and Pakistan."

"When?"

"Coxcoxtli?" Dorado asked.

"Best guess, fifteen centons, sirs."

xxxxx

Dayton stopped in the corridor just down from the Life Station, knowing he couldn't just walk in there and let things unfold as they might, as tempting as that might be. Jess had wanted to stop in and check on the condition of her Barstow crew, while Dorado and Curtis worked with WASA to get the commsat network functional again. However, geographically that would bring her face to face with Cassiopeia. As much as events in the Control Centre demanded his immediate attention, on a personal level Dayton knew his lady would strangle him if he weren't there to introduce Cassiopeia to his daughter and to offer some kind of explanation as to the nature of their relationship. Especially since he still had a wife down on Earth.

A good stiff drink was looking good about now.

"What?" Jess asked in a direct manner that he was beginning to realize was characteristic of his daughter.

"There's something I need to tell you before we go in," Dayton replied, nodding towards the hatchway.

"Alright." She crossed one hand over her stomach, the other rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "Tell."

"I've been gone a long time, Jessica."

"That you have."

"I honestly never thought I'd make it back to Earth."

"Well, that makes two of us."

Dayton smiled faintly. She always had a comeback. Just like her father. "I met a lady a few months ago."

"I see." Her full lips tightened into a thin line. "And she's in your Infirmary." She inclined her head in that direction.

"She's the medical technician in charge of it. Basically a doctor in training. Her name is Cassiopeia."

"Like the constellation," she said quietly, letting out a long sigh. "Well, that could have been awkward. Thanks for letting me know ahead of time."

For some reason he'd been expecting a scene. Her accusing him of betraying her mother. Some yelling. Sarcasm at the very least. Instead, she was standing there looking slightly ponderous. "That's it?" he couldn't help but blurt out.

She smiled sadly. "It's like Grandpa all over again, Dad. Part of Mom is already dead. Your _wife_ is already dead." She dropped her gaze from his eyes, looking around the grey corridor unseeingly. "What's left is just a . . . a container. Mom didn't want this. If euthanasia laws were different . . ."

"Euthanasia?" he murmured in disbelief. Ethically . . . morally . . . "_Jess_ . . .she's your mother!"

She looked up at him again, taking a few moments before replying. "I finally realized that even though the idea of having Alzheimer's is at the very least repugnant to most people, that Mom doesn't seem to be actually suffering." She smiled, bittersweet. "It's like she's in some . . . some make believe world of her own where generally the rest of us are occasionally let in to participate for brief interludes of clarity. For a quick moment, a few minutes, she'll be _Mom_. Her sense of humour comes out or that uncanny ability to observe the ridiculous, as only Mom can . . ." For a couple seconds she was lost in some memory of her mother; fond remembrance, joy and sadness all played across her features. "Then . . ." She shrugged, wrapping her arms around her and pulling herself back into the moment. "I think it's harder on the family than it is on the patient." Her eyes began to film over. "Maybe if Mom had put something in writing years ago . . . but she didn't. And I find I just don't have the . . . the _courage_ to act on behalf of the mother I _used_ to know. The one who would absolutely _hate_ what's she's become."

She looked so utterly defeated.

"Sweety Bear," he murmured, pulling her stiff, reluctant body into his arms. It occurred to him she wasn't a woman who sought comfort often. She would bear her burdens, resigning herself to a necessity or a means, rather than seek empty words of consolation or reassurance. Still, he was her _father_. Surely, there was some solace _he_ could offer her? Some measure of peace? Blessedly, she finally relaxed into his embrace. "Jess, I understand what you mean. None of us _want_ to be put in that situation. Most of us would want to find a way out. But at the same time . . ."

"By the time you're diagnosed, Dad, you're beyond making that rational judgment. Your brain isn't firing on all cylinders and it's already too late. You're trapped and you don't even know it. Mom's still alive, but your marriage is over, Dad. She needs a caregiver now, not a husband." She pulled back, taking his hand. "I guess what I'm trying to tell you in a round about way is that I'm glad you found some happiness with this Cassiopeia after all this time. And knowing what kind of relationship you had with Mom, I realize Cassiopeia must be some kind of special lady. I'm looking forward to meeting her."

"How'd you get so wise?" he asked in bemusement. In the space of a few minutes he'd gone from guilty to exonerated. Not that he was as willing to relieve himself of any burden of care for his wife as his daughter presumed he should. After all . . .

"I'm _fifty_," she reminded him, releasing his hand.

While rationally he knew that, one would never guess it by looking at her. A couple generations ago fifty-year old women were matronly and middle-aged. Gradually, over the years that had changed. Beautiful, fit, interesting and up to her eyeballs in career and family, his daughter looked far younger than her years. "You don't look it. Must be those Dayton genes."

"Well, you don't look _eighty-five_, either," she stressed the age, teasing him.

"Ouch," he replied. "Space-time continuums being what they are, child, I don't think I _am_. I'm roughly seventy."

She raised her eyebrows. "We're in different space-time continuums? But . . ."

"Let's not contemplate the 'buts'. They're too mind bending for this old man," he begged off. "Jess, there's a lot I haven't told you yet. Let's just hope Mason affords us the time before . . ." He stopped, his orders from Adama suddenly looming on his mind.

"Before what?" she asked.

"I need to tell you something else, Jess. My orders were to come to Earth, destroy the _Ravager_, and return without ever making contact."

"Well, two out of three ain't bad," she murmured in amusement.

"Obviously, circumstances forced our hand."

"Obviously. Space-time continuums being what they are, when do you need to go back?" she asked so very wisely.

It utterly floored him. Technically, no matter how long they were in Earth's orbit they could utilize the Clavis to travel back to the same time they had left as long as it remained fully operational. He smiled.

"Long enough to straighten out the mess. And to get caught up."

"That's what I thought," she replied. "Now, let's go meet Cassiopeia."

xxxxx

The victim of a celestial battle with Count Iblis, it was the second time in Ama's existence that she could feel her life force dwindling, running out like blood from a wound. Not much longer could she keep it up, matching energies against her own blood father, the immutable force of darkness and her nemesis. It was so much like their last brutal engagement in an alternate dimension beyond Morlais that she reasoned that either the Great Powers would come to her assistance or she would finally perish, the last spark of her effusive spirit spent. Or was that a part of their ultimate plan when she had refused to submit subserviently?

She steeled herself as another wave of Iblis' tormenting energy battered her, using her waning powers to repel him once again, before hitting him with what energy she could garner from her core. Everything around them had been laid to waste, victim to their ferocious supernatural carnage. Finally, they had ceased to be father and daughter. They were simply two spirits fighting for victory, two warriors engaging in mortal combat, two souls striving to endure.

But with different purposes.

"Concede, Ama!" Iblis demanded, wind whipping through his hair and whirling about his cape. Lightning lit up the dark sky above, while fire raged through cracks in the planet crust, smoke and flame rising from the very core as it ripped apart.

"Never!" she spat back, her own unruly mane blowing about her face, her lips curled back over her teeth.

She had come so far since their last campaign, her powers far surpassing anything she had ever thought herself capable of. To her own detriment, she had once imagined or perhaps imposed limitations on what she could achieve. Since then, Iblis had shown her much and the Oculus had done the rest. Her glorious powers had abounded and she had released them with abandon. It had been exhilarating beyond her wildest imagination. But the Great Powers had not been pleased.

For only two beings governed by the Beings of Light had ever defied Celestial Law. The same two had declared themselves exempt from it. Both Iblis and Ama had embraced, embodied and flexed every metaphysical muscle they possessed, flouting millennia old edict, using and abusing the secrets of the Oculus for their individual selfish desires. Was it something in their genetics that decreed they would break away? Was it something in the stars?

Was it irony, destiny or masterful manipulation that finally saw them opposing one another? Two omnipotent beings battering the very life energy out of each other, matching blow with blow, force with force.

Pain wracked her existence, but it was spiritual, not physical. Her vision was clouding, the light diminishing along with her hope and faith. Through a dim haze of exhaustion Ama realized that Iblis too was weakening, his life force draining beneath the onslaught of her attack. How much more could either of them endure? How much longer would their strength last?

Then a crack of thunder roared and a bolt of lightning split the heavens. The murky darkness above parted slowly until a light began to gradually filter through. Moments later it shone on them, like the dawn of a new beginning. For a moment it seemed that time was standing still. Her heart had ceased to beat. Then a strange sound began to fill her senses, growing in intensity, as her heart once again thudded against her breast, almost painfully. Abruptly, darting lights, moving faster than her eye could trace, swarmed them. Their presence was tangible.

And Ama truly knew fear.

xxxxx

Starbuck shook out his throbbing hand as he stood over the unconscious and supine form of Miller. The security man had surprised him, to say the least, when Starbuck had opened the turbo flush door to find himself staring at Mason's man. Thankfully, his warrior's instinct had kicked in. Rather than reason with Miller—who was not only armed, but also towered over him, outweighed him _and_ carried a grudge—Starbuck had punched him instead. In retrospect, it had been a lot like slugging a landram. Much to his surprise, the big man had hit the floor like a load of bricks.

"I didn't think you had it in you," Lauren said, keeping a cautious distance as she lingered in the turbo wash.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Starbuck grunted in reply, wondering absently if he'd broken a knuckle. Drawing in a breath between his teeth, he squatted down, relieving Miller of his firearm. He examined it for a moment, realizing it was relatively antiquated, but not so different from the one he had handled previously—Dayton's old Colt .45—that he couldn't figure it out. It took him a moment to find the release for the magazine, confirming the weapon was indeed loaded with projectiles. It took him another few microns to open the chamber, finding it also loaded. He emptied the round before closing the chamber, reinserting the clip, and then rechecking the safety. It was engaged.

"Is it anything like your phaser?" Lauren asked with interest.

"Phaser?" Starbuck asked, looking over at her. He'd heard the word before. "Oh, my _laser_. The rudiments are similar enough."

"So you won't shoot yourself by accident?" It sounded like something her father would say.

"No, but if you keep it up, I might shoot _you_," he replied wryly.

Lauren chuckled aloud. Considering the circumstances, it was nice to hear her laugh. "He has cuffs, Starbuck," she reminded him. "We can use them on him."

"_We_?" Starbuck returned, having also been subjected to the restraints that Mason's men carried. He put the weapon aside, searching the man's dark uniform, finding the cuffs and a small black box that fit in the palm of his hand. It looked like some kind of communicator, but how it worked he had no idea. He tucked it into his pocket to take a look at later. Then he grabbed Miller by the hip and shoulder, giving the man a shove over onto his face to secure his hands behind him.

"_Oui_," she replied, an unusual tone to her voice that was intriguingly sensual. "You over there and me over here, _mon cher_."

"_Mon what_?" He asked, his interest piqued. "That's not . . ."

"A few words of French. It's a Romance language. Never heard it before?"

"A romance language? No, I've never heard it before, but I think I'd like to hear it _again_," Starbuck replied, amazed that they had entire languages here on Earth dedicated to romance. Maybe it wasn't such a bad place after all. He smiled up at her, only to catch a glimpse of something hurling towards his head from the floor.

xxxxx

The Intel being shared that day was, to put it mildly, staggering. It wasn't only Congress that Albert Mason was addressing, but every reasonably intact national government and international network that still had the capacity to receive global satellite communications. The rest were too busy dealing with either the aftermath of an electromagnetic pulse, or the resultant political anarchy. Two other nations were on the brink of nuclear war. That left those present—either physically or holoptically—trying to figure out what to do about it.

President Gibson ground his teeth as he personally witnessed Mason's masterful manipulation of world chaos. It was as if he'd been planning it for years, and if what Smythe, Goldman and Foreman said was true, in a way he _had_ been. The agenda of the New World Order—or the Anakim, traced back beyond legends in the Bible—had been thrust forward when the Cylons had come to destroy Earth.

Elizabeth Smythe beside him looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber, while a sense of hopelessness and fatalism overwhelmed the young president, despite her reassurances. As much as he despised the idea of globalization beyond an economic or communications focus, even he could understand the abrupt need for a unifying and cohesive global force in this atmosphere of utter chaos and destruction.

All evidence proclaimed that the world was undergoing a financial meltdown, and Mason was already advising a gold-backed world currency and financial system. The inevitable economic collapse needed an economic authority, and members from the executive boards of both the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank already had ideas on how to proceed.

_How conveniently timed._

Already, there had been attempts at revolution in six countries, not all abortive, along with race and food riots. The United Nations "International Peacekeeping Forces" were strategically, and with remarkable smoothness, moving into place, quelling "civil disobedience" and "social unrest" worldwide. To Gibson that sounded like political speak for a New World military, which had been incredulously applauded by those looking for easy and available options for desperate problems.

After an attempt on his own life and two attempts that Gibson was aware of on the Russian President's life, the Vatican had just sent word that Pope Clement XIII had been assassinated in St. Peter's Basilica in front of a crowd of sixty thousand Catholics who had gathered there seeking reassurance and comfort from the Pontiff. The assassin was, conveniently, also dead. Gibson hadn't asked for the details, but could just imagine the ensuing bedlam in Rome.

It was the kind of desperate atmosphere that bred abrupt and sudden change in world policy. It set the stage for what came next.

"And now, my esteemed colleagues," Albert Mason, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, said, "we have more reason than ever before to unite our nations as one. In the timeless words of Abraham Lincoln, 'any people anywhere, being inclined and having the power, have the right to rise up and shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them better. This is a most valuable—a most sacred right—a right, which we hope and believe, is to liberate the world'. " Mason paused for a moment, raising a hand as recent war torn images were displayed over Kazakhstan, Los Angeles, Chicago, New York City and finally the utter vacuous wasteland that had once been Las Vegas and Mexico City. Miles and miles of smoking glass. In silence those assembled watched as finally a squadron of Raiders climbed towards Earth's orbit. All that was missing was the theme music. "For across the galaxy is a force far greater than any of us imagined. A force that is determined to destroy all of humanity. The battlefield is space, and my friends, for that we are woefully unprepared. But we have resources and manpower. And powerful allies willing to help us, also from across the stars. I have forged an early accord with their Strike Captain Starbuck, but it's clear to both of us that to facilitate this budding alliance between Earth and the Colonial Nation we need _sole representation_ for our planet. The time has finally come for Unification. Remember these immortal words for they are perhaps more poignant now than ever before: United we stand, divided we fall."

xxxxx

She _should_ be mature about this. _Snort!_ Considering their age difference, actually, Jess really had no choice. Yet somehow her rational mind had decided out in the corridor that the woman her father was involved with—the woman who ran the infirmary on this high-falutin', fancy dancy space ship—was actually a lot older than _twelve_.

"Jessica, it's my honour to introduce you to Cassiopeia," her father was saying.

"The honour is mine," the young, attractive blonde constellation said with a decidedly _tentative_ smile in Jess' direction.

Why did Jess get the idea that it was a smile that said Cassiopeia had been down this road before, more than once in fact, and the last time it had been a bumpy ride? She sighed. Okay, so maybe her father's lady _was_ older than twelve, perhaps even thirty, however they counted years in these Colonies. Despite that, Jess shook her head slightly, still in shock at the age of the woman who was speaking to her through their electronic translator. Years of good manners and public relations experience ultimately kicked in, and Jess held out her hand, lightly grasping the other's, and shaking it briefly before releasing it.

"Sorry," Jess murmured aloud, realizing that Lady Constellation was watching her uncertainly. "I know I'm acting like an idiot, but he didn't tell me you were so . . ." She shrugged, deciding to be honest. She didn't harbour any ill feelings towards the woman; it had just hit her by surprise. "Well, so y_oung_. I'd pictured the head of the medical department as a bit more matronly, to be honest."

"Matronly?" Cassie smiled at her bluntness, glancing at Mark Dayton indulgently. "Of course it would surprise you." She nodded, and then gave the commander a sidelong glance. "I don't think it occurs to him."

"Or any of them for that matter," Jess replied with a sniff. Her culture had paired older men with younger women as a male status symbol of power and virility, while generally it was perceived quite differently by their daughters . . . The phrase "gold digger" came foremost to mind, actually, but somehow Jess didn't think it applied in this case.

"How true." Cassiopeia smiled.

"How did _I_ end up being the odd one out?" Dayton asked, appearing slightly relieved by the situation. Sure, it could have gone much worse.

"By not mentioning that your love interest was younger than both your daughters by about twenty years," Jess replied wryly. "Or didn't you understand that part, _Dad_?"

Dayton opened his mouth, trying to find the words and failing as he looked from daughter to lover. Instead, he looked around the infirmary, obviously deciding to change the subject. "How are our patients, Cassiopeia? Cadet Xenia? The Barstow crew?"

"Xenia is sedated and on full life-support. Right now she's holding her own, but the tissue breakdown can't be stopped, and it's only a matter of time before another major haemorrhage finishes her, Mark. If there's anything you can do to get Starbuck up here . . ."

"Well, at least now we know where he is. Apollo's working on it," Dayton assured her.

The blonde nodded, obviously reassured by that. Colonel Apollo, apparently, had a reputation for getting a job done. Jess filed that away for future reference.

"This Xenia, is she Starbuck's wife?" Jess asked in concern. The pilot had saved her life and countless others. If there was anything she could do . . .

"No, one of his pilots," Cassiopeia replied, exchanging a look with Dayton. "I get the idea she knew him, yahrens ago. Acastus says she used to be an officer on the _Columbia_. She was medically discharged before the Destruction. Anyhow, she and Starbuck seem to have some kind of history that I can't quite put together. She won't talk about it."

"Probably a roll in the hay," Dayton commented.

"A roll . . ." Cassiopeia shook her head to indicate her confusion.

"Sex," Jess interpreted . . . through the electronic interpreter.

"I don't think so," Cassie replied, looking over towards a dimly lit cubicle. "Don't get me wrong, but she's not really Starbuck's type."

"Don't get _me_ wrong, but sometimes a guy like Starbuck's type is 'anything willing'," Dayton replied, following her glance.

"_Really_?" Cassie drawled, smirking slightly.

Jess had the definite idea that Cassiopeia saw both men in similar lights. She had the sudden urge to sit down with the woman over a Martini or two so she could _really_ learn about her father . . .

"What about the Barstow crew?" Dayton asked.

"Recovering from their radion exposure and other injuries," Cassie replied. "The psychological trauma will take longer, of course. In some cases, a lot longer."

"Prognoses?" Jess asked about her crew.

"Physically, I expect full recoveries," Cassiopeia repeated, glancing over at another medical bed. The occupant starred back at them. "Mark, I wish you'd speak to Bruce Johnson. I really _do_ believe it would help him psychologically to move ahead in his therapy."

Jess followed her father's gaze over to the Barstow crewman. Although he was reclining, his body seemed taut with tension as he ran his fingers through dark, wavy hair. "I'll go with you."

"Alright," her father agreed.

Together the Daytons crossed to where Bruce Johnson rested on a medical bed. He watched them wearily as they approached.

"How are you feeling, Bruce?" Jess asked him, glad to leave the translation matrix behind her. As much as she had mixed feelings about Bruce Johnson, he was still one of _her_ people, and each and every one of them had risked life and limb to take part in the Mars Base mission, many of them narrowly surviving thanks to the Colonial Base Ship. It was too easy to ascribe blame to a man she didn't necessarily like on a personal level, and she did her level best to make sure that personal feelings didn't interfere with her professional judgment. Was it possible that _Sam Chung_ was the saboteur? Had he, a man she'd known since university, really been hiding something _this_ big all those years? She'd have to get Lauren to dig something up . . .

"They're taking good care of us, Director," Johnson replied respectfully with a nod towards Cassiopeia and the other staff member present. He nodded at Mark Dayton. "We appreciate your help and hospitality, Commander. I owe you an apology for my outburst down on Mars. I'm afraid I was still in shock from what had happened, and the radiation didn't help much either, if that's any excuse. I realize now that there are two sides to every story and I sure didn't give you much of an opportunity to tell yours."

"Your mother was a damned good astronaut and a respected colleague, Bruce," Mark Dayton said. "Not to mention a dear friend. Rest assured, if I ever find out who sabotaged us . . ."

"You and I _both_, Commander Dayton," Bruce Johnson replied, slowly offering his hand uncertainly.

Mark Dayton reached forward and grasped it firmly.

"Thank you, sir," Johnson said, covering their right hands with his left. "Your understanding means a lot to me. I've spent my whole life following in my mother's footsteps, trying to find some kind of meaning or explanation for her . . . her death . . . Some kind of closure."

The commander nodded slowly, releasing his grip. Of course, Marilyn Johnson's body had never been recovered from the International Space Station explosion. Little had. A young Bruce Johnson had simply been told one day that his mother wouldn't be coming back from space and his world had never been the same. He hadn't even had a grave to visit. In some ways, he had lived and survived ever since on anger. "You're looking for answers you might never find, Bruce."

"I know, Commander. But I still won't give up."

"That's the spirit, kid. Neither will I," replied Dayton.

"_Commander Dayton, report to the Control Centre. Commander Dayton, report to the Control Centre_."

xxxxx

Starbuck narrowly avoided Miller's elbow as it targeted his head. Lauren cried out in warning as the warrior reflexively recoiled backwards, putting some distance between them. Without a doubt he knew that against a trained killer like Miller, he needed the element of surprise on his side in a full contact engagement. It had worked twice before, after all. Starbuck's momentum propelled him away from the larger man, and he scrambled away crablike before scurrying to regain his feet.

Hades Hole, he missed his laser!

Miller agilely rolled to his knees and then jumped to his feet, his muscled frame uncurling like a large predator's as they faced each other. While Starbuck had some training in hand-to-hand combat, not to mention a good deal of street smarts, one look at Miller's stance filled him with trepidation. Mason's man held himself like one of those professional . . . uh, what were they called . . . _Marital Arts_ fighters that Dayton had showed him on old Earth vids. For a moment they locked eyes, staring at one another. Miller had blood trailing down from the corner of his mouth. He screwed up his face and spat out a tooth, before sucking in a couple of deep steadying breaths.

"Listen up, Captain," Miller began out of one side of his mouth, relaxing his stance. "Actually . . ."

Besides his knuckle, there weren't a lot of breaks coming his way today, so Starbuck wasn't going to ignore this one. He shot forward, diving for the weapon. Tucking and rolling, his fingers curled around the gun butt as he regained his feet . . . for all of a micron.

Then Miller landed on him, flattening him with all the power and brutality of a hundred and fifty kilon Orion Hasher.


	63. Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

The air whooshed out of Starbuck's lungs in a milli-centon when Miller landed on him. In that momentary state of breathlessness where his diaphragm refused to function, he could only wait painfully as his chest ached with the desperate need to draw a breath. Miller's burly forearm wrapped around his throat at the same time as a meaty mitt started slamming his right hand down on the carpet, intent on making him lose his grip on the weapon. Starbuck clawed back over his shoulder with his free hand, desperate to do any damage he could to ward off his attacker while he willed his lungs to work again. He grabbed a handful of ugliness, hoping to gouge out an eye.

"Hold up, Pretty Boy!" snarled Miller, jerking back on Starbuck's throat until he let out a tortured gasp. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's dangerous to play with guh . . .?"

_Clunk!_

Miller's dead weight collapsed atop him. Again.

"You okay?" Lauren asked breathlessly.

Starbuck looked up to see her holding a dark wooden tray that she'd obviously clobbered Miller with. Using the tray like a battering ram, she shoved the guard to the side. Miller toppled to the carpet, a brawny leg still draped across Starbuck's lower back.

A slight gasp was Starbuck's best answer as his lungs permitted a small painful breath and then a slightly larger one, while he lay prone on the carpet. As 'places to collapse' rated, it wasn't bad. Dry, cushioned and soft, he could forgive the putrid floral pattern that his face was pressed against, at least for the centon. With a raspy breath, he rolled away from Miller, over onto his back, retaining his grip on the weapon as he looked across at Lauren, nodding gratefully.

"Thanks," he breathed, the air coming blessedly easier now.

"Eighteenth century American Chippendale Mahogany serving tray with original surface," she replied, taking a good look at the now badly cracked tray as she flipped it over in her hands.

"I like the way you serve," he replied, hefting himself up on one arm, then hissing in pain as his right hand throbbed anew. He slumped back to the floor, resting the weapon on his chest as he examined the knuckle that was already beginning to swell and discolour. "Frack, I'm getting tired of this. When I get back to the Fleet, I tell ya I'm due a two-secton furlon on the _Rising Star_, all expenses paid. Just me and Lu, a big bed and a view of the starscape . . . and not the portside view with the Sanitation Barge, either."

"Lu's your wife?" Lauren asked, taking his hand and looking at it. She pressed on the outside edge of his hand and he sucked in a breath between his teeth, pulling it out of her grasp.

"Hey!" he protested.

"Don't be a baby. You just broke a metacarpal." She rolled her eyes, kneeling beside him.

"A meta . . . Didn't know I _had_ one," he replied, cradling the hand in his other. It _hurt_. Especially when glib women pressed on it.

"They call it a Boxer's fracture here."

"Here in Congress?" he raised his eyebrows at her.

"Here on _Earth_." She looked over at Miller, then back down at the warrior. "_Now_ what, Wonder Boy?"

_Wonder Boy_? The lords of Kobol knew that he didn't _feel_ very wonderful. "How about we break out of here, you leading the way with your Mahogany tray?" he replied insouciantly, still lying on the floor. "They don't stand a chance."

"Very funny." She snorted. "Shouldn't we cuff and gag Miller first?"

Starbuck grunted. "With his resilience, it'd be a heck of a lot easier to just shoot him."

"You wouldn't even have to get up," she remarked pointedly.

"Exactly."

She frowned down at him, crossing her arms sternly before her. "Hey, this had better not be _you_ giving up."

He let out a long sigh, shaking his head slightly. "Lady, it's been a _long _couple days."

Lauren glanced at her chrono. "I'll give you exactly ten more seconds to whine, then you really need to start doing something more constructive, Buster."

"Well," he scoffed, "I guess that's ten more seconds than your father would have given me."

Miller groaned, moving slightly before slumping limply again.

"Oh, frack," Starbuck said, sitting up and gripping the weapon loosely. His hand throbbed with each subtle movement. "What _is_ it with this guy? He must be part Nomen."

"I could hit him again," Lauren suggested.

"Maybe use the headboard this time." Starbuck nodded towards the bed. He glanced at the weapon again.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Too bad it doesn't have a stun setting." It would have been so easy. Stun Miller. Truss him up like a Winter Solstice bird. No one got hurt. Most especially Starbuck.

"It fires _bullets_. How could it have a _stun_ setting?" she asked incredulously.

"I _know_ that, I . . . I just wish that it _did_! That's all!" he defended himself. Instead, now somehow he had to restrain the dangerous Miller, when he knew damn well it would end up with them grappling again. Sure, Miller _looked_ unconscious, but Starbuck had a feeling that just as soon as he was within reach of the killer . . . "Can you fire a gun?" he asked Lauren.

"_Y-yes_," she said, drawing out the word as she looked at the man lying on the floor, seemingly defenceless. "But . . ."

Starbuck frowned, knowing that overwhelming fatigue and a broken hand were putting him at a decided disadvantage just now if Mason's man recovered again. "Let me rephrase that, if he tries to clobber me again, _will_ you shoot him?"

"If I . . .uh, have to, yes."

"You have to."

xxxxx

Ama could see and sense only bleakness as she looked into the vacuous endlessness of what Eirys had once referred to as the Nonentity.. There was no life, no beauty, no sparkle, no light, utter nothingness. Nothing to stimulate the senses, nothing to do, nothing remotely engaging or interesting here. Any normal person would go stark raving insane within a secton. Overachievers would be barmy in a day.

Her people had been ridiculously inaccurate when they had conjured up the fiery depths of Hades Hole for eternal damnation. With relatively lively and animated denizens, daily toil, fire, brimstone, and an overall sense of purpose and perhaps even accomplishment, Hades Hole was a comparative amusement park alongside this place.

She cackled humourlessly at the irony.

Regardless, here she was fated to remain until the Great Powers sent for her. In fact, after her battle with Iblis, she found it was quite beyond her extinguished ability to summon up the strength to even attempt to probe the boundaries of this prison, never mind trying to escape its immuring force. She was completely out of touch with her loved ones, impotent to help them should they need it.

_Triquetra watch over them _. . .

The thought came unbidden even as she ritualistically stroked her talisman as she had done countless times before. However, she didn't even detect a shimmer of energy from the symbol of her powers. She let out a sorrowful sigh.

Her spiritual energy had once upon a time seemed limitless, growing within her with each passing moment, reaching an evolutionary peak when she had embraced the powers of the Oculus under the tutelage of her father. Now the boundless energy that had up until now suffused every fibre of her existence seemed completely wasted. Bled out. She was even devoid of emotion. She couldn't even detect a small spark of her Empyrean powers within her breast. Her very essence was seemingly gone. Her battle with Iblis had exhausted her reserves. The Great Powers had done the rest. This was the beginning of her comeuppance for defying those who regarded themselves as the keepers of the universe. If she had the energy she would have wept for the loss of her Empyrean quintessence.

"Are you ready, Ama?"

Ama startled at the sound, abruptly surprised and annoyed that she hadn't sensed the coming of his presence before John had physically materialized. Again, she grieved the loss of that heightened sense of awareness that she used to take for granted. She turned to regard him impassively, almost expecting that he should look different to her in her diminished state. He was as resplendent as ever and just now she found it irksome.

"What happened to Count Iblis?" she asked, knowing the Elders would dictate her father's fate before hers. His powers also depleted by their celestial battle, Iblis would have to yield to their will. "What did they decide?"

"A thousand yahrens of exile. He shall deceive humanity no more."

Ama wondered about that. If Iblis was the foil to goodness and light, then by his very nature his existence in their dimension was necessary. "Exile in a place such as this?"

"Yes." John hesitated a moment. "He asked to see you before he was banished. It is your choice, Ama."

"I will see him." Ama straightened her back, nodding curtly at the Being of Light before her. It would be quite the finale to her day. Confront her father and then suffer the wrath of the Great Powers. Probably she should have just stayed abed. "Take me from this place, John. I am ready."

xxxxx

After all that Technician Hummer had been through since arriving on Earth, it was a relief to once again be able to throw himself into the sort of work he knew best. Right now, he was tapping into Lucifer's memory core, along the way repairing as best he could the damage that had been done when Mason had thrown the IL out of a helicopter, impaling him on a flagpole. Curiously, it appeared that the cyborg had executed several automatic self-diagnostics in the previous centar, but each had failed due to a segmentation fault. Or—as Dickins had pointed out—possibly because of the gaping hole in the middle of Lucifer's chest plate.

"Well?" Dickins asked. Again.

From Hummer's personal translation matrix, he recalled that the word was very often Earthspeak for "Aren't you done yet, Slacker?"

Hummer narrowed his eyes, getting a feeling of anticipation as he made a slight adjustment . . . then grinned widely as telling algorithms began cascading across the screen of his monitor.

"Yeah!"

xxxxx

Centuries of barbarism and revenge had engendered and shaped the world in which Colonel General Alexei Andreivich Surkov lived. As much as brutality was a harsh reality of that world, from the times of Vladimir and Ivan the Terrible up to the present day, Surkov had resigned himself long ago that it was also a necessity when dealing with men like _Yuri Vladimirovic Borodin_. _Following his interrogation,_ Borodin had confessed fully to his crimes against Russia, not only in writing but also on video. Furthermore, the former director of the GRU had incriminated the Russian Prime Minister, several other key members of both the cabinet and the military, Secretary-General Mason of the United Nations as well as _British Joint Intelligence Committee Chairman_ Whatley.

So far.

In wake of two failed assassination attempts on President Kuzmin, Surkov reflected that it was somewhat consoling that "enhanced interrogation techniques" could right at least some wrongs. President Kuzmin had praised Surkov for his success, as well as his outstanding performance in safeguarding the _Rodina_ during the last few days. Ultimately, Kuzmin had even offered him Borodin's old job as director of their foreign intelligence agency, which Surkov had solemnly accepted.

While the general realized he should be honoured and proud of his achievements, instead of welcoming and celebrating the promotion, he found himself experiencing a great personal emptiness. He longed for the quiet sanctity of his _gosdacha_ in Peredelkino, the tranquil beauty of his small garden, and most of all, he found himself haunted by bittersweet memories of Jessica Dayton.

"Get me Sergei Orlov at Baikonur," Surkov ordered. "Tell him I have some intelligence that his director will be interested in."

"Yes, sir."

xxxxx

Despite spending several months immured in a stockade in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, Dick Dickins found himself burbling over with excitement for the second time in twenty-four hours since being briefly reunited with his family in New York City. He gazed hungrily on the animated images of Ryan, Baker and Porter, each of them grinning inanely at him over the digital display linked with the _Endeavour_, at least until he briefed them on the latest developments down on Earth, adding a little background on the Anakim and Brothers of Eden. That knocked them down a point or two on the fun metre. However, then he had the distinct honour and pleasure to introduce Paddy to his son, Grae, over the comm link. There was wonder and absolute joy in Paddy's eyes when he realized that his son—and daughter too, apparently—obviously had nothing but good memories of their wayward and long-absent father. Dickins had the idea that his old friend had just reached a pivotal moment in his life.

"_We knew Starbuck was trying to tell us something with that 'President Torg' crack, but this sounds crazy_!" Baker was saying.

"You think?" Dickins replied. "Well, spend a little time walking in our shoes down here on Earth and you'll realize it's changed a little bit since we left, and it ain't gonna win any blue ribbons at the Worlds' Fair. Either that or our eyes are finally open to what _really_ is going on with this Anakim bunch."

"_So what's the next move_?" Paddy Ryan asked.

"Whatever you do, you _can't _align yourselves with Mason and the United Nations. The _Endeavour_ is the most fearsome weapon in the star system right now. Whoever controls our Base Ship can control Earth and everybody knows it," Dickins said, hearing a snort of agreement from both General Roach and Leon Goldman behind him. "Mason is trying to make everybody believe that you're backing him."

"_Thus that dog and pony show featuring Starbuck_," Porter replied. _"__This Mason's one clever bastard.__"_

"Exactly," General Roach replied over Dickins' shoulder. "You have to admit, it's damn convincing. And believe me, nobody who _knows_ Mason wants to make enemies with him when they know you carry the same pulsar weapon that annihilated Mexico City and Las Vegas. This guy is the sort of lunatic who would murder millions to make a point. If you don't sign up for his globalism and world domination program, you're blasted off the face of existence. Needless to say, world leaders are pussy-footing around him right now."

"_So us Colonials are either your best friends or your worst enemies right now_?" Apollo asked over the languatron, shaking his head. "_Depending on your point of view_."

"Most politicians and military leaders are holding a collective breath," Roach admitted.

"_Well, let it out. We're here to help, however we can, not to hold Earth hostage while Mason takes power_," the young colonel replied.

"Good to know, Colonel," Roach replied.

"_So what do you recommend we do now_?" Apollo asked.

"We have to support the President," Dickins replied.

"_Which one_?" Paddy Ryan asked, rolling his eyes. "_Torg_?"

Ryan's head suddenly snapped forward and he grunted in pain, an indication that not only had Mark Dayton arrived, but also he'd heard the latest remark and cuffed his best friend in the back of the head because of it. An instant later his image replaced Ryan's.

"_You okay, Dick_?" Dayton demanded briskly of Dickins.

"Where the hell ya been?" Dick ragged him. "When I call a meeting of minds, Paddy's the only one exempt."

"_Well, you know how it is. Purloined Base Ships. All those solar systems. Are you okay_?" he asked again.

"Of course, Mark," Dickins replied, sensing the worry beyond the crusty façade. He had the feeling that distance alone had just saved him from a—_shudder_—group hug. A moment later he observed with amusement Dayton's daughter demanding the same of Grae Ryan. There was obviously some history between the two. Moving on, Dickins brought the _Endeavour_ commander up to speed on the latest developments, avoiding any disgustingly emotional scene while stressing that they were safely at the White House and among allies. "Right now Hummer has himself elbow deep in Lucifer's data banks trying to recover any so-called 'memories' of the IL's interactions with Mason. After all, this guy seems to change his spots to suit the occasion, but the average person hasn't cottoned on to that. At least no one with pull enough to do anything about it. If we can recover tangible evidence and show it to the masses . . ."

"_Good work down there_. _You think we can turn this around if we handle it right_?" Dayton asked.

"We do," General Roach agreed.

Dayton nodded, rubbing his unshaven chin thoughtfully. "_Exactly how much trouble is Starbuck in_? _Can we get him out_?"

Dickins paused. "It's not just Starbuck, Mark. Mason has your daughter too. He has Lauren."

Dayton winced, his jaw tightening with the news as he looked over at Jess briefly. "_Do you know _. . ._ is she okay_?"

"Short answer: yes," Goldman, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, inserted. "One of our latest reports indicates she's received medical treatment and that your strike captain negotiated for her protection in exchange for his cooperation."

Dayton nodded, barely registering the squeeze of support on his shoulder from Paddy.

"He's difficult to read, this Starbuck," Goldman continued, a shadow of doubt on his features. "I don't know what to make of him."

"_Starbuck_?" Dayton snorted. "_The kid's an open book—unless you're playing cards with him_. _Or sword fighting. Or _. . ._ okay, he keeps his cards close to his chest when it counts_."

"Some people think he's playing both ends against the middle," Goldman suggested.

"Yeah, the people that don't _know_ him," Dickins clarified.

"_Don't worry about Starbuck_," Dayton said. "_He's as straight ahead as the day is long_."

"For your daughter's sake, I hope you're right, Commander," Goldman returned.

"_What the hell do you mean by that_?" Dayton demanded.

"My man reported he demanded sexual favours from your daughter in exchange for protection for _you_, Commander."

"_That's complete felgercarb!_" Luana replied, her languaphone seamlessly entwining Colonial and English words together.

"Felgercarb?" Roach asked.

"_Absolutely_!" Apollo agreed, his eyes flashing angrily at the ludicrous suggestion. _"__Starbuck would never do that.__"_

Dayton looked like a storm cloud had suddenly ransacked his face. He turned red, veins bulged on his temples. "_Protecting me from what_?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"Our source says that Mason and Starbuck concocted a plan whereby they'd remove you from command. They didn't think your antiquated vision of Earth would align with theirs," Goldman continued. "That you'd try to block any political shake-up that would favour a World Government, like the Twelve Colonies apparently had."

"_Hey, it was never our agenda to force a new political system on Earth_," Apollo inserted over the translator. "_We came here to eradicate the Cylon threat. That's it_!"

Dickins crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head as he watched Dayton try to keep some semblance of control, while Starbuck's supposed betrayal was slapping him across the face. It was like watching a live volcano about to erupt. "_Paddy_ . . ." he counselled, knowing it was time for the voice of reason to insert himself before Mark Dayton and his infamous temper did something they'd all regret.

"_Use your head, Mark, this is obviously why Starbuck inserted that crap about President Torg_," Ryan said, reaching out to grasp his friend's arm. "_Something that only we would pick up on. You know there's more to this than meets the eye."_

"_There had bloody well better be_ . . ." Dayton growled, pulling out of Ryan's grasp. He ground his teeth, his nostrils flaring as his hands flexed into tight fists poised to do some damage. "_Or so help me God, I'll kill him_!"

Luana walked over to the _Endeavour_ commander, inserting herself right in his 'personal space', grabbing two handfuls of his tunic. "_You're like a father to him! He wouldn't do this to you or anyone you care about_! _You know that_!"

Dayton sucked in one deep breath and then another, staring into her eyes for a long moment. Finally, he slowly reached up to gently pry her hands from his person. His demeanour had completely changed as he thought it through. Who said old dogs couldn't learn new tricks? "_And he wouldn't do it to you either, Lu_," he replied confidently before returning his attention to the monitor. "_Your man is mistaken, Goldman_."

"Perhaps." Goldman shrugged. It was obvious he didn't think so.

_"__No perhaps about it_, _Goldman. I'm only here because of Starbuck. I've watched him face down everything from crumbling planets to Cylon legions to save others. He's not going to turn quisling on us now.__"_

_ "I hope you're right, Commander."_

"_This man of yours. Is he in a position where he can help them_?" Dayton asked.

"Yes." Goldman nodded. "He is."

"_Is he any good_?" Paddy Ryan asked.

"One of our best. He's been under deep cover for years in Mason's inner circle."

"_Well, thank God for that_," Dayton replied. "_Finally, some good news_."

"_Commander, we have a live link with Congress_," Dorado inserted. "_Are you ready, sir_?"

"_I'm ready. Take care of yourself, Dick, and keep us posted on Hummer's progress._"

"I will, Mark. Over and out."

xxxxx

While once the celestial realm of the Great Powers had seemed nothing short of radiant and spiritually sublime, today it filled Ama with a sense of foreboding. The beings around her obviously didn't feel the need to metamorphose into a familiar form for her comfort, thus she was surrounded by an array of entities ranging from the familiar countenances of Baltar and Eirys to a sparkling glimmer of energy that passed straight through her before vanishing beyond her now limited senses.

It was an undeniably beautiful impressionistic landscape composed in glimmering white gossamer. Once she had stood here luxuriating in the spiritual energy. Now there was a cold numbness where her former fiery spirit had dwelt. She had hoped for some resurgence, some spark of her Empyrean light when she had been released from the Nonentity, but there was nothing. She realized now that it had been taken from her, her punishment for defying the Great Powers and exploring the mysteries and the energies of the Oculus. She was mundanely "normal", bereft of her supernatural gifts. It was as though they had ripped the soul right out of her.

"For ignoring age-old, venerable Celestial Law, you have forfeited your powers, Ama, daughter of Arion and Annica, late of the Empyrean Imperial House," the spectral voice of Anshargal the Elder declared, the decree carrying effortlessly throughout the realm.

The Elder had no tangible form, thus it was difficult to judge where to direct her question. "Until when?" Ama demanded, looking around her, but resisting the urge to look above her.

"Until such a time when one much wiser than yourself reinstates them," Anshargal replied.

"Well, that's a little vague," she complained. "Especially on a geologic time scale."

"Ama," John appeared again at her side. "Iblis will be exiled for a thousand yahrens. Comparatively, your punishment is minor, wouldn't you say?"

"It should be! I fought Iblis so goodness and light might prevail over evil. I removed him from the battle, knowing his very presence was like a poison infecting Earth."

"You still broke Celestial Law."

"And I'd do it again, John," she readily admitted.

"Which is why you must forfeit your powers now, Ama, so you will learn to abide by our rules and submit."

"Submit." She shuddered. It was a foreign concept.

"You will still live among your people, Ama."

"But what use will I be to them, John?" Ama replied dourly.

"More than you realize," Baltar told her, taking her hand. "Your powers come from your heart and your spirit, Ama. The Elders can take away your supernatural abilities, but they can't take your wisdom, leadership, courage, kindness or allegiance."

"Nor can they take away the love of your family and friends," Eirys added. "You are truly loved, Ama."

"Oh yes, I _feel_ loved," she replied bitterly, pulling her hand from Baltar's grasp and looking around at those who had come to witness her humiliation.

"Come forward," Anshargal summoned her.

For some reason she had the sense that the heavens had parted and a spotlight was shining down on her, despite the obvious fact that there was no physical change around her. Time seemed to stand still and all attention was now focussed solely on the Empyrean necromancer. Ama stepped forward from her small circle of supporters, catching sight of Iblis as she did so. Wearing his classic white cloak that somehow managed to billow behind him even in the still air, he nodded at her.

"Might I be permitted to bid my daughter farewell before I go?" Iblis asked.

"Ama has consented," Anshargal replied.

Iblis nodded, looking to his daughter. He looked tired as he walked towards her. He appeared surprisingly deflated. Older.

"What could you possibly have to say to me now?" Ama asked him.

"Always be prepared for the worst so that you might accept it gracefully, the alternative being relatively pleasant, of course," Iblis counselled with a wry smile, stopping before her.

"Are you talking about this meeting with you or my forthcoming reconciliation?" Ama asked, unable to resist.

An incongruous mixture of cultured elegance and consummate evil, Iblis huffed in apparent amusement. "Ah, we could have had it all, Daughter."

"Yes, but I couldn't be bothered cleaning it," she replied, shaking her head at the repartee. It was times like this—when he wasn't raving like a lunatic or orchestrating the genocide of the human race—that she had the strangest feeling _Arion_ still lurked somewhere in Iblis' soul. Of course, it was ridiculous. Between the two of them they had ripped apart a world while battling for domination and here she was actually considering that maybe after a thousand yahrens of exile the Evil One might possibly be salvageable. After all, she had never believed in the neatly demarcated lines of black and white. The universe specialized in shades of grey. There was good and bad in every living being, even Count Iblis.

Ama sniffed inelegantly, shaking her head self-derisively, dropping Iblis' gaze. _Face it, old girl, you're a die-hard emancipator of souls. _

"There was a time so very long ago when I had hopes and dreams for my child." Iblis suddenly said, his usually eloquent voice becoming brittle. "You would curl up and fall asleep on me as we sat in front of the fire, your mother and I. It made my heart ache, so painful was my devotion for you both," Iblis said soulfully.

Ama lifted her head to meet his gaze. Dare she believe this? Dare she believe _anything_ he said? Yet, there was a strange light in his eyes.

"You're a good woman, Ama, daughter of Arion and Annica. Your mother would be proud. Your father _is_ proud." Then he reached up and lightly stroked her cheek, smiling lovingly.

And her Empyrean light flared to life.

xxxxx

Climbing gruellingly to his feet and recovering the cuffs from where they'd fallen at some point that he didn't even remember, Starbuck handed Lauren the gun to cover Miller. He paused, sighing in frustration as Mason's man suddenly rolled over, raising a hand to his skull and groaning. A moment later, Miller's hand drifted down to his jaw, wincing with pain.

"Hands behind your head, down on your face!" Lauren ordered, raising the gun before her with two hands.

"You're making a mistake. I was about to tell you that I'm on _your_ side, Ms. Dayton," Miller said, wiping a trickle of blood away before he held up his hands, sitting up slowly.

"Says the guy who was firing on her from a helicopter," Starbuck reminded him. He'd seen it.

"The shots that stopped the sedan were fired from the chopper's chain gun, not me," Miller defended himself, talking out of the right side of his mouth. Bloody spittle showered the rug in from of him. "I'm a Brother of Eden. I'm working undercover against Mason."

"_Against _Mason? That must be why you were so helpful to us on the helicopter," Starbuck replied caustically.

"That wasn't the time to reveal myself. _This_ is!" Miller insisted.

"Yeah, I'd be getting creative about now too if I were you," Starbuck returned.

"It's true! I'm a Brother!"

"Prove it," Lauren snapped, holding the weapon on the killer steadily.

The man nodded, again wiping a trail of blood away with the sleeve of his uniform jacket. "Okay. Ms. Dayton, your grandfather was the last Brother of Eden in your bloodline. Barney would have told you that. Your family goes back in the Brotherhood all the way to our beginnings here on Earth. Even before that. To the Valley of Eden."

"Eden _where_?" she asked.

"On our motherworld," Miller replied.

"Kobol," Lauren said.

Miller nodded.

"Tell her something she doesn't know," Starbuck recommended.

"Your ancestor was a prophet and adventurer, Ms. Dayton. A member of the royal court of the last Lord of Eden," Miller said.

Starbuck's mouth dropped open as Dayton's recount of the Prophet Daton from Lord Sagan's court came back to him. Maybe Miller wasn't adlibbing, after all.

"Starbuck . . ." Lauren murmured uncertainly, lowering the weapon slightly.

"Hey now, don't be so hasty!" Starbuck cautioned her, raising his hands in protest. Even the swollen, throbbing one. "Even if he tells a good tale, personally, I'm not a great admirer of this guy!"

"Me? Hey, _I_ never threatened to _rape_ her!" Miller retorted, still sitting placidly on the carpet, cradling his jaw.

"He was just trying to get me alone. To _talk_," Lauren explained.

Miller nodded slowly, looking at Starbuck with a new understanding. "I was hoping so. I was actually starting to respect you until it seemed you fell for Mason's lies."

"Yeah? Well I didn't exactly have a lot of options at the time," Starbuck said, still not quite ready to trust the man. "You know this guy, Barney, Lauren?"

"Yes. Briefly. Before he was killed."

"Who else is in this Brotherhood?" Starbuck demanded of Miller. "So far you seem like a bunch of down and out resistance fighters who don't have a lot of clout. I like to know who I'm getting mixed up with, pal."

"Good point," Lauren agreed with his summation.

"But inaccurate. Not only the Speaker of the House, but Leon Goldman, Liz Smythe and Terry Foreman are with us, to name just a few," Miller told them. "That's just the tip of the iceberg. We're just as powerful as the Anakim. We're politicians, military leaders, soldiers, intelligence operatives, historians, entrepreneurs, scientists, religious leaders, CEOs, philanthropists . . . you name it."

"You don't own any java shops, do you?" Starbuck wondered aloud.

"Huh?" Miller looked truly bewildered.

"Never mind. These people you're talking about . . . they're in the United States?" Starbuck asked.

"All over the world," Miller replied.

"Well, I'll be . . ." Lauren murmured.

"Going back, Mother Teresa was one of ours," said the still bleeding Miller. "So were Alistair Cooke, Pablo Picasso and your own professor of journalism, Ms. Dayton, not to mention Carl Fraser of ABC News. Hundreds of names throughout history you'd recognize. Hundreds more that will _make_ history. Even in the UN."

"_Carl _was with you?" Lauren asked, sounding shaken.

"Yes, ma'am. My condolences. I understand he was a fine man and a good operative."

"Bloody hell," Lauren murmured quietly.

Starbuck gave her a sidewise glance. There were times on this planet that he felt out of his depth. There was just too much about Earth that he didn't know. How was he supposed to know if Miller was bluffing or if he'd _acquired_ the intelligence in some unpleasant circumstance? Maybe all he could do was try to be prepared if that was the case . . .

"You know, Starbuck, if that's true we might actually have a chance in Congress," Lauren said, finally lowering the weapon. Obviously, she wasn't having the same difficulty making up her mind. "I wish I knew what the hell was going on in Congress right now."

"Turn on the live feed," Miller suggested, nodding towards the sitting room. "It's part of the internal programming."

"Of course," Lauren said. "You can get up, Miller, I won't shoot you, after all."

"I appreciate that," Miller replied, slowly climbing to his feet, a weary eye on Starbuck as the warrior took the weapon back from Lauren, tossing the restraints on a table before they all moved into the other room. Lauren headed directly for a piece of furniture and rolled back delicately carved doors to expose a large monitor. A moment later she was scrolling through digital choices and selecting Congressional programming. Meanwhile, Miller rubbed his jaw once again, his hand exploring his pocket, coming up empty. He glanced at Starbuck. "I think you broke something."

Starbuck shrugged, holding up his swelling hand. "I _know_ I did."

Miller snorted. "I meant my jaw. You pack quite a punch . . . for a little guy."

"You know the military," Starbuck replied, not rising to the bait. He was no stranger to knocking out men instead of shooting them whether he was retaking the _Celestra_ or storming the Enforcers from the Eastern Alliance on Paradeen. "Always trying to come up with ways to avoid firing our weapons, saving on ammo."

Miller smiled, his gaze flickering to the weapon again. "Now _that_ I understand." He held out his hand, motioning slightly with his fingers. He wanted his gun back.

"I don't think so," Starbuck replied.

Miller raised his eyebrows. "You don't trust me?"

"Miller, I'm just about at the point that I don't trust _anybody_."

Lauren took a step back, looking between the two of them and the monitor once again. President Gibson was speaking. She frowned, opened her mouth, and then clamped it shut again. Then she turned up the volume.

"Sounds like you're losing your objectivity, Captain," Miller suggested, his hand still extended expectantly in front of him. "Spend enough time in the field on your own, going without sleep, struggling to survive, and that will happen. Sometimes you have to find _new_ allies."

There was a lot of truth in what he said and Starbuck knew it. "Lately, I take a while to warm up to new allies. One centon they're compatriots, the next they have a weapon against my head." A vision of General Roach came to mind. "It makes a guy a little sensitive, if you know what I mean. Don't take it personally, Miller."

"I won't." Miller motioning with his fingers again. "_If_ you give me back my gun. Face it, if we're to keep up appearances, _I'm _the one supposed to be armed and covering both of you. You're putting us at risk."

"Am I?" Starbuck asked.

"Yeah, you are," Miller replied, taking a step closer and holding out his hand between them. "You're on my turf right now; you can't do this on your own, Captain. You _need_ me."

Starbuck swallowed down the acrid taste of inadequacy, feeling the still reassuring weight of the weapon in his hand. What were the odds that the facts Miller revealed about Lauren's family were known not only by the Brothers of Eden but also by the Anakim? Was Miller friend or foe? He just didn't know for sure. What he did know was that it felt good to be armed again, to have something between him and the killer to make Miller hesitant and on guard. The fact of the matter was that sometimes alliances were short-lived and incidental, especially here on Earth. Besides that, Lauren still hadn't said a word. She was standing aside, uncharacteristically silent, half her attention on him and Miller, the other half on watching the American president's speech. An internal klaxon went off in his head. After all, if she wasn't giving him the classic Dayton dressing down for this, then maybe . . .

"Yeah? Well, right now your Brotherhood needs my _Base Ship_ even more, Miller," Starbuck returned, wincing slightly as he adjusted his grip. "So you might as well get used to the idea of expending a little more energy trying to get along with me."

Miller frowned, dropping his hand. "Stubborn cuss, aren't you?"

"It's one of my many charms," Starbuck returned wryly with a grin. "Just ask me."

"Are you two finished with the male posturing?" Lauren asked, turning up the volume on the monitor again.

"What is it?" Starbuck asked.

"President Gibson just announced that a message from my father is going to be broadcasted worldwide."

The two men turned their attention to the monitor.

"_Before Commander Dayton speaks, I have one more thing to add_. _This is the two hundred and seventy-ninth anniversary of the day America adopted our Declaration of Independence right here in Congress_. _Once again in the Cylons we have defeated a mighty foe,_ _yet unbelievably here we sit debating the end of democracy as we know it_." President Gibson was concluding his speech to Congress. "_Secretary-General Mason earlier quoted Abraham Lincoln. In rebuttal, I find myself compelled to do the same." _He paused a long moment, looking around at those gathered._ "Lincoln warned us that America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves_." Again he paused. "_That is exactly what Secretary-General Mason is advocating we do right here on Capitol Hill, senators and representatives. I dispute the suggestion that the military support of our Colonial allies is dependent on Albert Mason's vision of Globalism. That is not the message that Captain Starbuck conveyed to me in New York City, and I am confident that is not the message Commander Dayton will convey to us here today. _"

xxxxx

Cassiopeia shook her head silently as she looked at the latest diagnostic results on Xenia in the Life Station. It was nothing short of a miracle that she was still alive.

"Not much longer," Rhiamon murmured, gently brushing the hair back off the medicated warrior's forehead as she looked over at her colleague. Her assessment was based on pure instinct, but it was no less accurate than the readouts the med tech was reviewing.

xxxxx

"Mr. Speaker, Mr. President, members of both the United Nations and the Congress, and citizens of the world, I'm Commander Mark Dayton of the Colonial Covert Operations Ship, _Endeavour_," Dayton said, steadying the slight quaver he detected in his own voice as he addressed the United Nations, the American Congress, and anybody else who might be listening from the Control Centre of the _Endeavour_. Millions and eventually billions across Earth would be hanging on his every word, waiting to see what the most powerful man in the solar system was about to do as he hovered above them in his big, bad Base Ship. "I'm in command of the Colonial men and women responsible for engaging and destroying the Cylon capital ship that attacked Earth. For those of you who don't already know, I was actually born in 1970 in Chicago, Illinois. I'm one of you, an Earthman."

"The last time I was in Earth's orbit was back in 2010, when I was the mission commander of the last scheduled mission of the Space Shuttle, _Endeavour_, on a routine flight to the International Space Station. On July 1st, 2010, the ISS exploded and everyone aboard was wiped out. As best as we can piece together, my ship and crew were hurled across time and space, by forces we still don't fully understand, to the other side of the galaxy where we finally met our Colonial brethren, your newest allies."

"Since coming back to my old neighbourhood to hunt for Cylons, I've been informed that back in 2010, my entire crew was unjustly accused of terrorism—of blowing up our colleagues, ourselves and the future of the American space program." Dayton shook his head in disgust. "I understand we were never actually tried in absentia, evidently due to amendments still upheld in our Constitution, thank God for that. However, I still get the general idea—most often when I'm physically attacked—that none of us are America's favourite sons."

"Furthermore, through discussion with an old and trusted friend—i.e. the only person with the guts to tell me the truth—it has been brought to my attention that after destroying the Cylons, the people of Earth are waiting with bated breath to see what _I'm_ going to do next. There has even been the completely asinine suggestion that I'm up here with my mega-pulsar pointed at Earth, determined to have my revenge on my own home planet by backing some cockamamie bid for a New World Order."

"Well, a wise man once said that a lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on. The _Endeavour_ was sent to Earth by the government of our Colonial brothers and sisters and their Fleet Commander, Adama, with one sole objective: protect Earth and neutralize the Cylon threat. That threat, as embodied in the enemy vessel, the name of which translated into English as _Ravager,_ has been neutralized. The _Ravager_ has been destroyed. All other reports of domination, threats and general bad manners on my part have been greatly exaggerated."

"I understand that with the aftermath of the electromagnetic pulse from the destruction of the Cylon capital ship, as well as their military strikes on Kazakhstan, Mexico and the United States, that there are areas of complete chaos down there where entire countries have lost their infrastructure, as well as countless lives. This is a time for dedicated and strong world leaders to focus on relief efforts and restoring order, not a time for radical political upheaval by megalomaniacs and usurpers."

"The people of Earth need to understand that even though this particular Cylon threat has been eradicated, we still have to defend ourselves against those who would destroy us and everything we believe in. Never forget that not all threats come from outside. Freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, the freedom to access information and media, universal rights, sovereignty—these are all being threatened." Dayton paused. "However, not currently by the Cylons, but by the newly appointed Secretary-General of the United Nations, Albert Mason, through his vision of a tyrannical World Government."

"I'm here now to declare my support for President Gibson of the United States of America in light of the accusations flying around Congress. My crew and I will do whatever we can to help ease tensions and provide necessary relief. As well, I submit that Albert Mason, instead of being indecorously appointed to the United Nations as Secretary-General, should instead be taken into custody and tried for treason against his country, his President, and his fellow man. As a matter of interest, we have retrieved admissible evidence from the data banks of the IL-class Cylon construct, known as Lucifer, as well as the sworn testimony of former GRU Director of Russian Intelligence, Yuri Borodin, which will corroborate my accusations. Anyone who knows me can tell you, I am not a man who makes them lightly."

"Also, I beseech President Gibson to waste no time in locating my daughter, Lauren Dayton, as well as my strike captain, Starbuck, both reported to be somewhere on Capitol Hill in the _custody _of Mason's people. Frankly, I am concerned for their safety, and if I have to step in and intervene on their behalf, well, it's inevitable that I'm going to drop in the popularity polls again." He shrugged indifferently, leaving no doubt that he would step in if need be.

"As you consider these things, my fellow humans, I leave you with the words of one of the wisest men who ever graced our world, the Roman statesmen Marcus Tullius Cicero. When _his_ people faced hard decisions, he said: 'a nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less to be feared, for he is known and he carries his banners openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear. The traitor is the plague.' "

He waited a beat.

"Expect me within the hour. Dayton out."

xxxxx

As Iblis' power flowed into Ama with the merest touch of his hand, it was like a transfusion, a tsunami of life-giving energy. Her life force swelled within her, suffusing her heart and soul. Then the abrupt establishment of her visceral reconnection with her loved ones was so intense and startling, she gasped aloud, almost collapsing, sobbing with relief. Iblis caught her in his arms.

"_Iblis_!" Anshargal roared. "_It is forbidden_!"

"So exile me to an alternate dimension for _another _thousand yahrens," Iblis replied blithely, setting his daughter back on her feet. "You know as well as I do that you manipulated the child into this, yet you punish _her_ for her wilfulness and freedom of spirit. You wish to see her submit. It pleases you far too much to use my own daughter against me, Anshargal. Whatever _I _might be, my child does not deserve such."

"You overstep your bounds, Count Iblis. I could reverse it with a wave of my hand."

"You could try," Iblis replied. "Celestial Law, Anshargal. You told Ama that her forfeiture would last until one much wiser than herself reinstated her powers." He smiled egotistically, chuckling aloud. "Simply put, I am that one."

"Dearest Triquetra . . ." Ama murmured, getting glimpses of what was happening on Earth. She gripped her talisman, its warmth and energy grounding her.

"You must go," Iblis told her.

"But . . ." Ama searched his eyes for an instant, for it was all she could spare. "Father . . ."

"I'm feeling generous, Daughter," Iblis told her. He scowled. "Now—before I come to my senses—go!"

"Mr. Speaker!" President Gibson barked, bolting to his feet in Congress as Commander Mark Dayton faded from view on the individual monitors of each representative. Elizabeth Smythe was hot on his heels.

"Sergeant-at-Arms! Take Secretary-General Mason into custody," the Speaker of the House ordered, rising to his feet. The Capitol Police Force was already moving to do just that.

"This is an outrage! I'm the most powerful man in the world!" Mason shouted, almost spluttering, his right hand diving into his pocket. "Guards!"

Two Capitol Police officers seized the United Nations Secretary-General as Gibson paced determinedly towards the seat of the "honoured visiting dignitary". Two hulking men in dark suits and military haircuts, obviously Secret Service, flanked the President immediately. Others rose from within the amassed politicians, moving quickly to neutralize those of Mason's men that were willing to rise to his defence. Others stood down, realizing they were outnumbered.

"As a member of the United Nations, I have diplomatic immunity!" Mason shouted. "You can't arrest me! It's universal law!"

"Universal laws are subject to suspension in a state of emergency," President Gibson replied, nodding at his Secret Service Special Agents. "Proceed."

The agents quickly flanked Mason, replacing the officers.

"Now, where are Lauren Dayton and Captain Starbuck?" President Gibson demanded, moving almost nose-to-nose with the would-be world emperor as the agents searched Mason. One pulled out a slim black box.

"It's some kind of transceiver, Mr. President," the agent told him, turning it over in his hand. "It's already been activated, sir."

"Where are they, Mason?" Gibson demanded again, his voice lower and icy.

Mason chuckled evilly. "It sounded to me as though Commander Dayton's loyalties would depend upon the safe delivery of his daughter and strike captain. What a shame."

"That won't be a problem," Gibson replied.

"Won't it? Are you so sure about that?" Mason sneered. "What are you going to do when you find you have one very pissed-off old astronaut grieving for his daughter and young heroic subordinate? Huh, Gibson? All the Brothers of Eden in the world won't be able to help you then."

"What have you done?" Gibson demanded, a chill running down his spine. He clenched his fists in Mason's jacket, jerking him towards forward hard.

"Starbuck played me for a fool, didn't he?" Mason blew out a harsh breath. "And I don't even know how he did it." His mirthless laugh sounded mad. "But I'll show him . . . I'll show them all!"

"_Where are they_?" Gibson demanded through gritted teeth.

"Ms. Dayton and Captain Starbuck were in the fifth floor apartments," a Capitol Police officer announced as he penetrated the crowd. "They cleared security an hour ago, Mr. President."

"Lead the way, Lieutenant!" Gibson ordered the officer, thrusting Mason away from him as if he were dripping garbage, and then turning on his heel to push his way through the crowd. He had a very bad feeling about this.

"You're going to be too late, Gibson," Mason yelled at the President's back. "Commander Dayton is wrong if he thinks he's bested me! He'll soon find out differently, and so will you, _Mr. President_!"

xxxxx

It all happened so fast. One centon Starbuck was reeling from the implications of Dayton's speech to Earth's bureauticians, the next his groin started inexplicably vibrating. Talk about an unexpected distraction . . . With a start, he reached into his pocket, pulling out the slim black box he had taken off of Miller with a questioning look at the supposed Brother of Eden.

"Oh shit."

"What . . .?"

It was all the warrior managed to get out before the door to the suite crashed inward and three men burst into the room, two of them hurling something forward while the other fired his weapon for cover.

"Get down!" Miller shouted, throwing himself to the floor.

Starbuck fired successive shots at the three goons, simultaneously diving sideways towards the floor to evade a cascade of bullets heading his way. He saw one goon go down as he heard a dull thud only metrons away. Some kind of explosive . . .

Lauren screamed.

"_Down_!" Miller hollered again, well out of sight and behind him.

Then Starbuck's world exploded in a blinding flash of light.


	64. Chapter Twenty Five: Part One

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Commander!" Sagaris said suddenly. "Sensors are picking up unusual energy wavelons heading this way. Fast!"

"Origin?" Dayton asked, and then abruptly shut his eyes, shielding them with his arm as a flash of light and a wave of pure energy rocked him where he stood. It seemed as if the entire vessel shook for a moment. "Battle stations!"

"_Starbuck_!" Luana cried as the klaxon began to blare.

When the spots in front of Dayton's eyes cleared, he realized that his strike captain had abruptly materialized in the Control Centre, as well as two other bodies. All three appeared either unconscious or dead. Apollo and Lu were rolling Starbuck over, while Dorado, Jess and Ryan were doing the same to the others.

"He's alive!" Apollo reported.

"Here too!" Ryan said, attending one of the strangers. A man.

Apparently Dayton's friend had recovered about the same time he had. There were only two ways the three individuals could have been transported here, and they certainly hadn't used the Clavis.

"Ama?" Dayton murmured, looking around. The necromancer was somewhere about. He just knew it.

"Oh my God," Jess muttered.

"Jess?" asked Dayton, moving towards her. The still woman before her was . . .

"Lauren!" cried Jess, looking down at her sister.

Dayton felt fear slam into him like a battering ram. Just knowing that the daughter that he hadn't seen since she was a toddler was now lying here on the deck of the bridge, unmoving. "Laur . . ." he began.

"Oh, God! She's been shot!" Jess announced hoarsely.

The words terrified Dayton and his chest tightened with panic as he grasped his younger daughter's hand. She was pale, but her chest was rising and falling in a gentle reassuring rhythm. "Get a medic!" he shouted, simultaneously hearing Pierus on the commlink to the Life Station.

"On her way, sir!" Pierus replied.

"Report!" Dorado yelled out.

"Energy wavelons have stopped," Sagaris said.

"Then kill the klaxon!" Dorado ordered.

"Yes, sir." A moment later it seemed eerily silent.

"How bad?" Dayton asked Dorado, his fingers automatically moving to find Lauren's pulse. It was strong.

Using his cybernetic hand, Dorado easily ripped the jacket fabric covering Lauren's bleeding arm, exposing the wound halfway up her deltoid. The captain let out a sigh of relief. "It's superficial, Commander. Just a graze."

Dayton nodded, even as his own eyes and hands sought to confirm it was indeed true. Then he watched the young bridge officer begin to field dress the wound expertly from a med kit. It was hard to believe that this was his baby girl . . . all grown up. After all this time, she was still riding her wagon like a bat out of hell down playground slides when no one was looking. Dayton leaned down, gently brushing Lauren's cheek with a kiss. Then he turned his attention to the others.

"How are Starbuck and the other fella?" Dayton asked, squeezing Jess' shoulder in reassurance as he glanced beyond the stranger to his young strike captain.

"Starbuck's coming to," Apollo replied as a low groan emanated from his friend. "He looks stable, but I'd just as soon have a biomonitor confirm that." The colonel paused a moment. "Sagan's sake, Commander, he looks like he's been grappling with a team of Orion Hashers! I think his right hand is broken, Lord knows what else . . ."

"You oughta . . . see the other guy . . ." Starbuck muttered from the deck.

"I think this _is_ the other guy!" Ryan announced, kneeling above the stranger. "The left side of his jaw is broken, a perfect match for Starbuck's hand! He's also been shot in the chest! Where's Cassie?"

"Here!" the med tech replied, racing into the Control Centre with her med kit, a few conscripted warriors following. "What do we have, Paddy?"

"Sucking chest wound and broken jaw here, m'lady," Ryan replied, already applying pressure to the wound. "As near as we can tell it looks like they all hitched a ride with either an absentee necromancer or the Clavis is striking out on its own again. Either way, they're in the usual post-transit semi-comatose soon-to-be-retching condition. Hope you brought a few hoverstretchers and some barf bags."

"I did, but I'm going to need some help," she replied as people readily moved to expedite the transfer of the wounded while she ran her biomonitor over Ryan's charge. "We're already stretched to overcapacity in the Life Station from the Barstow crew, so consider yourself recruited, Paddy. How are the other two?"

"Mark's daughter has a minor flesh wound but is still unconscious," Ryan replied. "Starbuck's a bit battered and broken, but seems okay."

Cassie looked up sharply. She obviously hadn't realized. "_Starbuck_?"

"Is Xenia still with us?" Ryan asked, meeting her gaze across the patient.

Cassie nodded, looking at Luana and Apollo. "It's a dying woman's last request. Get Starbuck to Life Station! Now!"

xxxxx

"Well?" President Gibson demanded, a smudge of soot on his face as he paced back and forth like a caged beast, waiting with Elizabeth Smythe.

They had all heard the explosions and felt Capitol Hill shudder well before they had arrived at the inferno that had become the fifth floor apartments. Two of Mason's hit squad had been apprehended trying to escape; the other two had apparently perished in the explosion . . . along with the Colonial Warrior and L. M. Dayton.

The triumph Gibson had felt when Commander Dayton had thrown in his lot with the beleaguered president had been short lived. The outstanding condition of that alliance was that Gibson was to ensure the safety of Starbuck and Dayton's daughter. He had failed.

"They're still trying to contain the fire, Mr. President. But there's no way anyone could have survived it, sir."

Gibson looked at Smythe. "So . . . do we tell Commander Dayton now or wait for him to show up?"

"We wait for him to show up," Smythe replied, her voice brittle. "And offer to put him in a room alone with Mason."

xxxxx

Sometimes a guy had the strangest feeling that he was racing through life on full turbos and couldn't disengage them, no matter how hard he tried. One moment Starbuck was sure he was about to get blown to Hades Hole in an apartment on Capitol Hill, and the next he found himself collapsed on the deck of the _Endeavour_, feeling much like he did when he was transported via either the Clavis or Empyrean necromancy. All the same, he had just about kissed the deck, he was so glad to be back amongst his own. Apollo had said the abrupt relocation had nothing to do with the Clavis, which left Ama as the only alternative he was aware of. It made him wonder where the heck she was?

Despite being snatched out of harm's way of the explosion, the wounded Miller had been rushed to Life Station for emergency surgery because of a bullet to the chest. Due to a superficial flesh wound and the residual effects of the supernatural translocation, Lauren would be on her way by now as well. Meanwhile, Starbuck was being half-carried and half-dragged through the ladderwells and corridors of the _Endeavour_, supported between his wife and his best friend. In their infinite wisdom, they had decided that negotiating ladderwells on a hoverstretcher was too slow, too tedious. Starbuck's head throbbed, his stomach heaved, and his rubbery legs were just trying to keep up. No, it wasn't exactly his idea of how his heroic return to the Base Ship should play out. And where was Malus? Surely the IL should be offering to carry him there . . .

"She's dying, Starbuck," Apollo was saying about Cadet Xenia. He quickly relayed the story about the cadets boarding the _Ravager_.

"And seeing you is her last dying wish," Lu pointed out as they neared the Life Station. "What's going on, _Innamorato_?"

"_Nothing_, Lu," he assured her, wincing against the bright lights that stabbed right through his eye sockets and into his skull.

"Then why does she want to see _you_?"

He shook his head, instantly regretting the small move, which made it feel like his brain was ricocheting around his skull. "Honest, Lu. I don't know for sure."

But he had a pretty good idea.

"Finally!" Rhiamon announced as the three squeezed through the Life Station hatch. The former Empyrean healer, now med tech, waved a hand, summoning the small group towards a private cubicle. "There's not much time."

Moments later Starbuck was propped up on a seat beside Xenia's biobed, leaning over the cadet as Rhiamon dosed her with a medication to revive her from her drugged stupor. Xenia let out a low moan, her face contorting with the pain she was experiencing as her eyes flickered and her mouth gaped open. Rhiamon began adjusting the medication infusion, trying to achieve the ideal state between comfort and alertness.

"Do you want me to leave?" Lu asked behind him. Apollo had already discreetly distanced himself from the scene.

"Hades, no," Starbuck replied, meeting Lu's eyes, knowing his wife had suspicions about him and Xenia that couldn't be further from the truth. If he sent her away, now . . .

Then a coarse voice said in surprise, "You came."

Starbuck looked down again at the cadet, nodding. "Of course, I came. As soon as I found out." He paused a moment, not sure how to approach this. Xenia had a chip on her shoulder about the size of Caprica, and no matter what reassurance he had offered her in the past; she had never been able to get past . . .

"You look like mong, hero," she muttered, seeming to delight in it as her mouth curled up at the corners.

"You're no picture of health yourself," he replied, glancing over at the biomonitors and medical paraphernalia. "Sagan's sake, Xenia . . ."

"Tell me the truth," she said, her hand suddenly reaching out and gripping his. Of course, it was the broken one, all purple and swollen. He choked back a yelp of pain. "I want to know. I _need _to know."

He sucked in a breath, pulling his hand from her grasp, replacing it with the other. "Xenie, I told you . . ."

"Don't call me that!" she snapped.

Starbuck clamped his mouth shut, gritting his teeth, feeling the waves of aggression and resentment roll over him. The truth was he hated confrontation, especially with women. He would do whatever was necessary to avoid it. Confrontation with men was so much easier to deal with. Give them an opening, let them punch you in the face, and all was forgiven. Well, in most instances, anyhow.

"Please, Starbuck," Xenia pleaded with him. "They're all dead. State secrets and military confidentiality don't matter anymore. Tell me the goddamn truth, for Sagan's sake. Whose fault was it? Or was I right all along?"

Starbuck heard the little indrawn gasp from his wife and felt her hand settle on his back. So far Lu had been uncharacteristically reserved about her feelings on this. Apparently, she was giving him the benefit of the doubt, which was kind of nice for a change.

"Look, Xenie . . . Xenia," he hastily corrected himself, "I was only an ensign back then. They didn't exactly let me in on the overall plan over Sibellius. I told you that."

"What I want to know is why _you_ came back and Orion _didn't_! You were his wingman! You were supposed to be watching his back!"

He swallowed hard, reluctantly swept back into the battle that over nine yahrens ago had taken the life of far too many pilots, one of them his good friend, Orion. The _Columbia_ had been Starbuck's first battlestar posting, and fitting into his new squadron had been no problem for the unrestrained and gregarious greenhorn. Not surprisingly, he'd soon found a cohort in the brash Lieutenant Orion, who played cards and chased women with the same aggressiveness and self-assurance that he flew Vipers. They had been two of a kind and it wasn't long before Strike Captain Gienik had made it official, assigning Starbuck as Orion's wingman, the start of a beautiful friendship.

With the boisterous encouragement of the rest of their squadron, the two had fallen into a friendly rivalry, informally competing on everything from Cylon kills to female conquests, racking up vast numbers of both, and generally trying to outdo each other at every opportunity while having one Hades of a good time. Orion had never tempered Starbuck's wild side; in fact he either encouraged or surpassed it. Starbuck could still picture his old friend relaying for the first time and many times thereafter, "_I live by one basic rule._ _Don't do anything that I wouldn't do._" It had turned out that there was very little that Orion _wouldn't_ do.

Actually, those were some of the best times of Starbuck's young and irresponsible life, such that he could have filled a tome with tales of their exploits, both personal and professional. However, such verifiable details at that time could also have been considered admissible evidence, of interest to their superior officers, various port officials, their lovers and every Kobollian priest that had deemed himself responsible for safeguarding a young warrior's procurable soul.

Looking back, there must have been a designated Lord of Kobol working in continuous rotating shifts watching over both of them for the six sectars that Orion and Starbuck kept company. Starbuck's old flight instructor had once told him that there were three qualities every fighter pilot should have: an aggressive spirit, a joy of action and the passion of the hunter. Well, his strike captain aboard the _Columbia_ had also accused him and Orion of ego, vanity, immaturity and utter stupidity. They had rationalized it by saying it was all in good fun, but eventually even exceptional combat records couldn't cover for their wild ways and indiscretions out of the cockpit.

Some times it had seemed that the only single bit of lucidity in Orion's life was his twin sister, Xenia—or Xenie, as her friends and family called her. She was as straight-laced and cautious as her "little" brother was rash. Also a lieutenant on the _Columbia_, and one of the rare female Viper pilots in the service at that time, with her intelligence, skill and leadership abilities, it had been obvious even to the Viper jocks that she was destined to be promoted far up in the ranks. And it had been said "the further, the better".

Starbuck had grown to know her fairly well, finding that she fell for his easygoing charm with an indulgent sisterly approach. Generally, they had had some good times; however, she had berated both warriors for not taking their careers more seriously, telling them they had a misguided sense of purpose when each battle came down to who had acquired the most kills

_Listen, you two heroes, battles aren't won by individuals, they're won by teams!_

"What happened?" Xenia demanded, pulling him back to the present. Her voice was growing weaker, her colour ashen.

"We thought we were surprising them, but they were ready for us the micron we cleared the atmosphere, Xenie. We were outnumbered three to one, with them hitting us from three directions while we were still climbing out of Sibellius' gravity well. With those odds, every man in the squadron thought we'd be ordered to fall back, but instead they ordered us to continue with the primary objective. I guess _we_ were the decoys."

A secret mission to rescue four members of the Council of Twelve that had ended up stranded on Sibellius, a desolate planet in the Suomi System, had gone badly from the start. The Battlestar _Columbia _was diverted from her regular patrol route to facilitate their rescue. Somehow, somewhere, just how was never revealed, Cylon intel had learned of the mission. They dispatched a force to intercept the Colonials and cripple the Council at the same time, a move that would have in essence decapitated the Colonial government. The bulk of _Columbia'_s Viper pilots, without backup, never knew they were basically piscons in a barrel.

It had been a fracking massacre, and he still remembered the fear that gripped him by the throat when on the scanner he saw his friends and fellow warriors decimated one after the other. The expendables. Colonial heroes were blown out of the sky, bits and pieces of their machines raining down on the planet, leaving fiery trails as they burned up on re-entry. He and Orion had dropped all pretence of outdoing each other, their birds flying in perfect synchronicity as they hunted Cylons, coming to the rescue of many a fellow pilot while covering each other's back. He still remembered that powerful sense of immortality and euphoria that had enveloped him against the impossible odds. Somehow he and Orion both eventually ended up in simultaneous pinwheel attacks, while exploding laser fire filled the air around them. By some miracle, Starbuck managed to escape, crash landing his damaged Viper on a plateau in the planet's southern desert continent, barely surviving the ensuing strafing run meant to finish him off.

Orion hadn't been so lucky. Dozens of kilometrons behind Starbuck, he'd gone down. The last his wingman had seen of him, Orion had been tumbling into a deep canyon, belching a trail of black smoke behind him. A flash of light and a distant _boom_ confirmed his worst fears.

"You weren't watching each other's backs, were you?" Xenia demanded. "You had to get one more kill than him, had to outdo him . . . Was that it? You had to be the hero, just like you're still teaching cadets like Acastus and Trevanian." She paused, searching his features for a moment. "Or was it Command, Starbuck? Did they sacrifice Spatha Squadron? Was the squadron just . . ."She broke off, coughing. Then: "Were they just laser fodder so they could get the Council members safely off Sibellius?"

Ironically, the mission was considered a success, the casualties just another statistic of war. Xenia, assigned to Scimitar Squadron, had been deployed elsewhere, completely unaware of what had befallen Spatha Squadron as Xenia helped escort a shuttle carrying Council members to the relative safety of the _Columbia_. Something inside of her snapped when she had discovered her beloved twin had been killed in battle, and she demanded tough answers to hard questions that Command wouldn't give up to a subordinate officer who was so out of line.

Then she had come after Starbuck.

Swathed in field dressings, dazed and disoriented, he hadn't been prepared for the attack when Xenia had arrived in Life Station demanding explanations as though he was the tactical commander in charge of the battle. Before his eyes, Xenia emotionally exploded, going so far as to verbally attack him, accusing him of selfishness and betrayal, and assuring him he'd never be trusted as _any_ Colonial Warrior's wingman ever again.

It had shaken him even more than the battle, realizing that the loss of Orion had caused such bitter hatred and resentment in his sister. It was as though some intrinsic piece of Xenia had died along with her brother. Not long afterwards, she was medically discharged from the service entirely. Not too surprisingly, guilt had spent many a rest period haunting Starbuck's dreams as he tried to come to terms with his friend's death and questioned his own possible role in it. A proposed transfer to the _Galactica_ with a lacklustre evaluation attached to it then propelled Starbuck into stepping back and revaluating the previous six sectars.

Well, the rest—as they said—was history. At least until a bitter cadet who looked at him with hatred simmering in her soul had joined up a few sectars ago, obviously still obsessed with her brother's death. She'd spent nine yahrens wondering who to ascribe blame to—either Starbuck or the high command—never once considering that it should be placed squarely on the Cylons. It seemed such a damned waste, especially knowing how much potential she'd once had as an officer. Most had assumed, after all, she was slated for her own ship one day. Combat Stress Syndrome: it was an enemy almost as destructive as the Cylons.

"Tell me!" she pleaded with him, her voice breaking. "_Tell me_."

Starbuck let out a sigh, bowing his head in apparent defeat. "It was my fault, Xenia. Orion was trying to save my astrum when he got caught in the crossfire of a couple Raiders. I owe him my life. You were right all along. I was too reckless, too fracking determined to play the hero."

"I knew it . . ."

He gritted his teeth, biting back the urge to refute the lies he'd just told. It hadn't been his fault _or_ High Command's, but he just wasn't prepared to spend the last few moments of Orion's sister's life refuting something she'd been obsessing on for all those yahrens. Looking back, while he'd been as angry as every other surviving Viper pilot, the Cylons had simply outmanoeuvred them. And Starbuck's vindication in Xenia's eyes just wasn't important to him anymore. He'd never considered himself _responsible_ for Orion's death, although he'd wondered long ago if there was anything he could have done to prevent it. It was a normal grieving process he'd gone through time and time again when he'd lost friends in battle.

Just maybe it would ease Xenia's mind if she believed her convictions all these yahrens were justified, that Starbuck was far more worried about his image than he was his friends, and that it was his fault Orion had died that day. Maybe she could finally stop spewing bitterness and cynicism and simply succumb to the sweet allurement of the ever after, where she might even be reunited with her brother again in some way, shape or form. Then maybe, just possibly—if a guy could really believe those things—then conceivably Orion could tell her the truth.

"Starbuck," Lu whispered.

Starbuck looked up. Xenia's unseeing eyes stared back at him. She was gone.

xxxxx

"So . . . let me get this straight. According to _Toffee Nut Latte_'s ramblings before he got carted away to the Life Station, everybody on Earth probably thinks that Starbuck, Lauren and this Miller guy were blown to Kingdom Come, but nobody's jumped on the horn to tell us so. What the hell's that all about?" Dayton asked, following his daughters into the Life Station. The medical centre was packed to capacity and then some, anyone with medical training helping out in any capacity they could.

"Well, to be fair, most probably it's only a select few on Capitol Hill that are sifting through the wreckage," Porter returned, helping Jess move the hoverstretcher into an empty space. "I don't really think we can vilify everybody else on the planet in this latest conspiracy."

"That's big of you," Jess inserted wryly.

"And there was that, shall we say, _thinly veiled threat_ you made about what you would do should something happen to them," Baker added, looking around for some help as Lauren groaned, hand to her head. "Fessing up would be like painting Washington, D.C. with a big ole bull's eye."

"Easy, sweetheart, it'll pass," Dayton assured Lauren, checking the dressing on her arm. She was still suffering with the after effects of being zapped from Washington, D.C. to the _Endeavour, _by means unknown. Aside from that her field dressing on her arm was soaking through. He looked around for Cassie and Rhiamon, but neither was available.

"Who's racing?" Lauren muttered quietly, disoriented. She tried to focus, then frowned as her father came into view. "D . . . dad?"

"Yeah," smiled Dayton, despite her condition. "Yeah, it's me, baby."

"What are you thinking?" Porter probed Dayton. "That the President has something up his sleeve?"

"I don't know," Dayton admitted, shaking his head. "After all, I presume these Brothers of Eden are backing the President now, but what's _their_ agenda? Did we just oust Lex Luther from power to put in Doctor Doom?"

"Dad," Lauren groaned. "Christ, it feels like my skull is going to crack open."

"Can we get some help here?" Dayton demanded to the room at large. Several heads turned around, most of them going back to what they were doing. "That's an order!"

"On my way, Commander Cranky, sir! Keep your shirt on!" a familiar voice replied.

"Oh, great . . ." Dayton groaned, seeing Ryan heading their way.

"Dad, people have been talking about the New World Order for over a century," Lauren pulled him back to the conversation, while grimacing in discomfort. "The Anakim fit the profile perfectly. I don't exactly know how the Brothers fit in, but they're definitely determined to stop Mason."

"Just like Hitler was determined to stop Stalin," droned Baker.

"From what our experts pieced together on Mars," Jess said, "when the Colonials arrived in our star system they settled what history or folklore talks about as Atlantis and Lemuria, as well as started settlements on Mars and Phobos, probably with intentions to terraform. Ultimately, after trying to dominate the Earth's primitive inhabitants into worshipping them as gods, they ended up splitting into factions and eventually warring. They basically blew each other to Kingdom Come, and a lot of our ancestors with them."

Lauren nodded. "That lines up with what Fred and Barney told me. The war completely destroyed all of those settlements, leaving behind the legacy of two Houses: the Anakim and the Brothers of Eden."

"And those survivors obviously heavily influenced the ancient Sumerians, the Egyptians, yada yada yada," Ryan inserted as he arrived. Dressed in a white tunic, he inserted his hands under the sonic cleaner before turning to Lauren. "Now, tell Dr. Ryan how you're feeling, darlin'?"

"Like I was shot just before a room blew up, and then pulled by the head with a burning set of hot tweezers through the eye of a needle," she replied.

"Whatever kind of drugs she's on, I want some," muttered Porter.

"Hmm, you might have something there," Ryan replied, grabbing a hypospray and turning back to his patient. "Let me guess . . . headache, dizziness, nausea?"

"In spades," Lauren replied, closing her eyes.

Ryan nodded. "Yeah, it seems to play havoc with the inner ear causing those symptoms, although some people suffer worse than others, and Ama's ride is always worse than the Clavis." He applied the hypospray to her arm and it emitted a _whooshing_ noise as it discharged its medication. Then he began unwrapping her arm.

"Ama? Clavis?" Lauren asked, opening her eyes. She blinked a few times, assessing how she was feeling. "How do those work?"

"Think Star Trek's transporter, then replace Scotty with some wacky psionic energy force," Dayton replied.

"Psionic _what_?"

"And a weird-looking lady with wild hair and bad teeth."

"Holy crap, I must be completely zonked."

"Welcome to my world," Dayton replied, wincing as blood began running down his daughter's arm and Ryan started cleaning the wound. "So what are your feelings on the President, Lauren?"

"Give him the benefit of the doubt," Lauren replied. "Personally, I think there has been enough negative reaction as the result of inaccurate assumption around here to last a life time." She paused a moment. "Dad, I have an idea. Why don't you take Starbuck and I with you when you go down? Imagine the impact it will make, especially if they think we're dead." She smiled, and then startled as Ryan touched a sensitive area.

"Speaking of Starbuck, don't you think you should tell him about Mal, Mark?" Ryan mentioned, applying some granulation acceleration gel before binding up the wound again. There wasn't time for a full-scale regeneration treatment just now. "After all, _we_ broke him."

"_Iblis_ broke him," Dayton replied as right on cue his strike captain appeared from a private cubicle, his arm slung loosely around his wife. Starbuck's eyes found Dayton's as if he knew they were talking about him. The young man hesitated a moment before reluctantly heading over.

"Iblis? _Count_ Iblis?" Lauren asked, obviously shocked. "The same Count Iblis that orchestrated the destruction of the _ISS_?"

"_He did_?" Jess asked.

"Care to explain that?" Dayton said, although he'd suspected that for some time now.

"Let me go back a bit," said Lauren. "For almost a year now, I've been secretly interviewing Eckandar Shahhosseini, the former leader of the Islamic World Front."

"What?" asked Dayton, stunned. Even before the he'd joined NASA, he had, like everyone else, heard of the infamous 'Titan of Terror'. "You _met_ with him?"

"Ah, so _he's_ your Pulitzer," Jess commented, shaking her head in disbelief. "He led the _IWF_ when they claimed responsibility for blowing up the ISS," she reminded everyone.

"Holy shit, child!" exclaimed Dayton, clearly upset. "That bastard is . . . Hell's Bells, why don't you just go waltz with a goddamned tarantula, huh? Maybe juggle some scorpions? Wouldn't want to do anything _dangerous_ now, would we?"

"I was trying to find answers, Dad," the younger sister replied. She sat up, swinging her legs off the hoverstretcher, feeling much better. "In my job, to find the truth you go to the source."

"You never could play it safe, Lauren," growled Dayton. "Even as a kid."

"Runs in the family, I guess," she replied, looking him directly in the eyes.

"I thought Shahhosseini died in Pakistan a decade ago," Jess said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice and calm the coming inter-generational storm.

"_Twelve_ years ago actually. He's been living in the States in hiding."

"What? We're harbouring a known terrorist?" Jess asked, looking outraged.

"Yeah. He's the one who turned me into Mason, by the way. His organization was useful to powerful men over the years; men that I would now suggest were members of the Anakim. He specifically mentioned Asar." Lauren replied. "Those same powerful men are now repaying his years of service."

"The Feds always did have a good retirement package," Ryan quipped.

"Son of a bitch!" hissed Dayton, his face red. "You know where he lives, Lauren?"

"I think you're missing the point, Dirty Harry," Lauren told her father. "Shahhosseini and the Islamic World Front didn't orchestrate the destruction of the International Space Station, the _Anakim_ did. The IWF was just the convenient scapegoat, the mysterious terrorist cell for the public to direct their anger and hatred toward. Remember, the government cut funding to NASA when they claimed it was teeming over with terrorists. And I think we all realize now that Iblis was the driving force behind the Anakim."

"Because with NASA out of the picture and the space program set back, Earth wouldn't have had a chance at defending herself when the Cylons arrived," Baker inserted.

"Iblis wasn't counting on WASA evolving from all that," Jess pointed out. "Or the Guardians helping out. Or the _Endeavour_ arriving . . . either of them."

"The Guardians . . . right, John and his bunch," Porter realized as Starbuck reached them. The strike captain's eyelids were hooded with fatigue and discomfort. "Do you have a dose of that stuff for Starbuck?" he asked Ryan. "He looks like he needs it."

"Sit yourself down, _Low Fat, Double-Caf_," Dayton told him, pushing him into a seated position on the stretcher beside Lauren. "How's Cadet . . .?"

"Xenia," Starbuck supplied, shaking his head. It was all the answer they needed.

"Sorry, kid." Ryan reached over with the hypospray, dosing the warrior. "Hey, at least you made it in time, eh?"

"Yeah, the Lords were watching over me as usual," Starbuck replied dryly, closing his eyes partly and rubbing his forehead. "Thanks, Ryan. I needed that."

"Unrequited love?" Ryan pressed, still curious as to Starbuck and Xenia's relationship.

Starbuck snorted, shaking his head as though the very idea of Xenia feeling anything the least bit affectionate towards him was absurd. "Hardly. Her brother was a good friend. It's a long story, and not one of my favourites."

"What about Starbuck's hand?" Luana asked, changing the subject. "Will you take a look, Paddy?"

"Let's see," Ryan said, taking the warrior's hand and turning the swollen limb over. He grabbed a biomonitor, running it over the injury. Both female Daytons watched the alien instrument with curiosity. "It's broken, alright. I can reset it and bone mend it before you go to the science lab."

"Science lab?" Starbuck asked, letting out a sudden yelp of pain as Ryan manually reduced the fracture without warning. The strike captain jerked his hand back as if stung. "Damn, Ryan!"

"Oh right. I guess I forgot . . . take a deep breath and let it out, Starbuck," Ryan said too late, looking over at the _Endeavour_'s commander, raising his eyebrows.

Dayton sighed, taking a step forward and putting a hand on Starbuck's shoulder. "Kid, there's something I need to show you . . ."

xxxxx

Dickins had seen the smoke and destruction from a distance and had heard the sketchy news reports as his group approached Capitol Hill, but strangely a feeling of utter calm descended upon him when he woodenly followed them into the smouldering building, finally hearing personally from President Gibson that Starbuck and Lauren Dayton had been killed in an explosion.

"Any forensics, yet?" Dickins asked, feeling several sets of eyes look at him in various states of concern. "Did you see the bodies?"

"Not personally, no. They just finished extinguishing the fire, Captain Dickins. The smoke is still too intense to allow anyone except fire fighters in," President Gibson replied sympathetically. "I'm afraid that Mason already had accelerants in place and a team armed with explosives standing by. As soon as Commander Dayton exposed Mason for what he really was, the madman gave the order electronically. There was an explosion, and the suite and the adjoining rooms were engulfed in flame. We never had a chance to get to your friends."

"That part of the wing has been reduced to rubble," Elizabeth Smythe added. "A national landmark blown to . . ."

"That heartless bastard would level the whole goddamned world . . ." Gibson bit off his words, obviously trying to contain his anger, supposedly not befitting a president.

"Do you have video?" Dickins asked, more upset about Starbuck and Dayton's daughter than a hunk of architecture, no matter how well known. "In our day, they had cameras everywhere."

"Not in that particular set of rooms," President Gibson replied, still simmering. "We only have digital surveillance on the corridor."

"Then let's see it."

"Uh . . . Captain Dickins, we were hoping you would be good enough to accompany us to the airbase to meet Commander Dayton," Elizabeth Smythe inserted.

"I'd be happy to, and so would Hummer and Ryan Junior here, but _not_ until I see that video."

"Let's see it, Mrs. Smythe," said Gibson. "I want to know, too."

"Yes, Mister President."

xxxxx

Amidst the scorch marks, holes, and the worse than usual mess of the Science Lab, Malus was lying supinely on a workbench, unmoving, not an oscillating light in sight nor a mind-numbing detail passing through his vocal modulator. If he'd been human, Malus would have looked like he was laid out for some funereal ceremony. But he wasn't human. There was nothing the least bit organic about him. He wasn't even a "he". _He_ was a Cylon.

" . . .then Count Iblis spoke this phrase, and Malus just shut down. Iblis said it was some sort of kill-switch program, buried deep inside his operating system," Dayton was explaining. "We tried to reboot him when we got back here, but when Ryan and Baker fired him up, he went completely ballistic, kid. He shot up the lab, the holo-reader for the data crystals we found on Mars, and he just about shot Ryan too . . ."

"_Frack_ . . ." Starbuck muttered, now understanding the destruction all around him. Then he added numbly, "Thank the Lord that everyone's alright."

There was probably something seriously wrong with a guy when he was more moved by the end of a Cylon's "life" than he was by that of a fellow Colonial Warrior like Xenia. However, as much as Xenia had been consumed by endless resentment and bitterness over her twin brother's death, Malus was driven by a humbling desire to not only learn about humans, but to actually attempt to emulate their finer qualities. In retrospect, it had almost inspired Starbuck to want to live up to the IL's impossibly high standards. As much as the IL could be annoying at times, especially with the often inappropriate "affection" he had for Starbuck, Mal had proven himself to be a trustworthy ally and a good friend since the Colonial Warrior had convinced him to switch sides on Planet 'P'.

"Starbuck?" Lu said, putting a hand gently on his arm. "Are you alright?"

"Nothing that a secton's worth of sleep won't cure," he replied, stepping forward to take a closer look at his former 'cybernetic daggit', even as a new wave of weariness washed over him. Now he sort of knew how Boxey felt when the little boy lost the original Muffit during the strafing runs over Caprica City. Ironically, Malus was the closest Starbuck had ever come to having the unconditional adoration of a pet. Only there would be no replacing his faithful IL with the indefinable glitch in his programming that had moved him to start idolizing a brash young lieutenant in place of the fanatical loyalty usually reserved for his Imperious Leader. Mal was one of a kind. Curiously, as Starbuck gazed down on him, the IL looked unmarred, as though if they activated his power cell, Malus would sit up and start regaling him with data regarding the overall effect of sleep deprivation on humans, and how one could not "make up" for lost rapid optical movement cycles.

"Hey," Lu said, pulling on his arm until he turned to face her. "Don't shut me out. I know how fond of Mal you are."

_Shutting her out?_ He shook his head at her in bemusement, not following. He didn't have the energy left to grieve just now, not for Malus, not for Xenia, nor for the millions of Earthlings lost during the Cylon attack on Earth. "I'm not shutting you out, Lu, I'm just tired, that's all. Tired of all . . ." he shook his head, waving a hand in the general direction of Malus and the scorch marks in the lab, " . . . I'm tired of all this felgercarb."

She nodded at him, tilting her head slightly to the side and studying him. He sighed, feeling a bit like he was back in Russia, under examination once again.

"I'm sorry, kid," Dayton said. "I wish there was more we could do. As sceptical as I was when _old Bulb Head_ signed on, Malus proved himself over and over."

"It was a safe bet," Starbuck replied. Somehow he'd just known it was worth the risk. It had been instinctual. He glanced at the auxiliary power source hooked up to the IL. No, it was too crazy . . . Thoughts of his old friend, Orion, again came to mind. _I live by one basic rule._ _Don't do anything that I wouldn't do._

"Commander?" Technician Arcadius said, approaching him a little reluctantly.

"Arcadius." Dayton nodded at him. "Did you get anywhere with the holo-reader?"

"I did rig something together, Commander, but there was something we hadn't factored in, sir."

"What's that?" Dayton asked, following the young man back to his station. Sure enough, the tech had managed to replace several parts of the reader that had been destroyed when Malus had shot up the lab with Jolly's laser. Lu followed, but Starbuck remained with Malus, noticing that both Dayton and Lu were armed, as usual. Idly, his hand found his own empty holster.

"This, sir," Arcadius replied, pressing down a switch. He turned up the volume.

_". . . __mem em amenit er saa neheh. Set uta set kui, maki er saa heh. Ari en thu enen her ma mest tu em nub er au-f__."_

_"To me it sounds like complete gibberish, Commander, even if I have to admit the sound quality is surprisingly good," Arcadius added as the alien tongue continued to fill the air._

Dayton winced, closing his eyes for a brief moment and listening carefully before finally shaking his head. "Looks like we're going to get more out of going back to Mars and reading the hieroglyphics than we will trying to figure out this babble unless someone else can make head or tails of it. What language is it? Do you even know?"

"I can only guess it's some ancient Kobollian dialect, Commander," Arcadius replied. "But I'm no linguist, sir."

"Reminds me of some of the ancient Egyptian my father knew, but I can't make anything of it either," Dayton said, watching Luana cock her head to the side, listening intently. "Lu?"

"There are a couple of words or sounds that seem familiar. Maybe from some ancient Empyrean rites Ama used to perform when I was growing up," she replied, smiling slightly. "I guess I was paying more attention than I thought."

"You think Ama will understand it fully?" Dayton asked.

"I don't know for sure," Lu admitted. "_But_ . . . Ama also knows how to read ancient Kobollian script and so does Commander Adama. Together they translated much of an ancient Empyrean logbook that we found on Alrin. I can't help but wonder if either of them know bits or pieces of the _spoken_ language."

Dayton frowned. "That could be a long shot."

"Speaking of long shots," Starbuck suddenly said to get their attention, "I hope your lasers are charged, because I want to try something."

"Huh?" Dayton replied. Then his strike captain reached for the auxiliary power switch on Malus. "_Kid, no_!" he cried in horror.

Despite the warning, Starbuck fired up the IL one last time.


	65. Chapter Twenty Five: Part Two

On Capitol Hill, President Gibson studied the surveillance feed yet again as it showed Mason's men bursting into the fifth floor suite, just before the explosion that abruptly filled the corridor with smoke and debris.

"Again," Dickins demanded for the third time. "Slower."

There had been no indication that the Colonial strike captain or WASA journalist had escaped from the room prior to the attack. Gibson simply didn't know what Dickins was looking for.

"Ah," Dickins said, a slow smile curling his lips.

"Ah!" cried Hummer.

"What?" Grae Ryan asked.

"The bright flash of light . . . There! Did you see it?" Dickins asked, pointing to the screen. The old astronaut was almost out of his seat.

Several of them shook their heads and once again the surveillance feed was replayed, now slowed down to the machine's limit. Almost undetectable to the naked eye, they could now see a bright flash of light that preceded the advance of smoke and debris into the hall.

_Almost._

"What of it?" General Roach asked.

"Remember when Starbuck suddenly appeared in his Wraith over Roswell all the way from Kazakhstan?" Dickins reminded the general. The NASA astronaut nodded at the camera. "Look familiar?"

"I remember," Roach replied, looking at the screen. He signalled to one of the techs, and the image was enlarged and enhanced via several formats. "The brightness just about knocked the eyeballs out of my head."

"Well, our boy, Starbuck, has a sort of guardian angel watching over him." Dickins glanced at his watch. "What I'm trying to tell you is I think they made it."

"Guardian angel?" asked Gibson, raising his eyebrows. Then again, just a quick mental review of all the near-death scrapes that Starbuck had narrowly escaped from since arriving in New Mexico would almost support the outrageous statement.

_In God we trust_ . . .

xxxxx

"Honestly, Mal, I can't even leave you alone for a couple days without you getting yourself possessed by the first demon that happens along," Starbuck berated the IL as he took a step back to watch power once again suffuse the Cylon. "What _am_ I going to do with you?"

It was a calculated risk and one that Starbuck knew he had to take, not only for the sake of an unconventional friendship, but also because Malus was an invaluable member of the _Endeavour_'s crew. At least this time there was no way for the IL to arm himself, and if necessary, Dayton and Luana could shoot him if he came out of his mechanical dormancy straight back into Cylon Psychosis, preferably before he got too close to Starbuck. However, Cylons weren't exactly known for their agility and speed, and Malus was no exception with his ungainly IL build. This should be relatively straight forward, or so Starbuck reckoned.

_Click._

The lights in the IL's head surged to a static life, and his glowing blue eyes—changed only days ago to emulate Starbuck's own—oscillated only once before his head turned slightly to face the other. They locked on the Colonial Warrior who was looking at him uncertainly.

"_Oh fra_ . . ."

Malus' torso shot upright and he reached out. Starbuck jerked backwards, but too slowly. Malus grabbed the young man, pulling him forward. Cold metallic hands wrapped around his neck as the warrior fell against the IL, off balance. Then the IL series Cylon stood up, pulling the young man against him and further upward, using Starbuck as a shield between himself and the others.

"_Are you out of your cotton-pickin' mind_?" Dayton roared from behind them. _"__Son of a__ . . ."_

"_Starbuck_!" Lu shrieked at the same time.

"Colonial Security to the Science Lab!" Arcadius was yelling, presumably into a telecom.

xxxxx

"I'm going back."

The shock and outrage on John's face was almost comedic, Ama decided, feeling an unrepressed joy burble up within her at her proclamation and his reaction to it. She cackled loudly, watching as John winced with the sound of her laughter and no doubt the sight of her gapped-tooth smile, while Baltar and Eirys stood by in silent amusement.

"B . . . back? But you _can't_ go back!" John informed her. "You simply _can't_!"

"Why not?" she asked, settling hands on her ample hips.

"Well . . . no one has _ever_ just gone back before," John claimed indignantly.

"Then it's about time that someone did!" Ama replied reasonably. "I've existed among your kind long enough to know that I'd rather _live_ with _my_ kind."

Unlike Baltar or John, Ama had not evolved to this celestial plain through the death of her human body and the release of her spiritual energy; instead she could exist in either realm because of her supernatural abilities inherited from her father, as well as her "method" of transition.

It was rather liberating, especially after the month she'd had.

"But Ama," Baltar said, holding out his hands in a grandiose fashion. "How do you ascend to _this_ and then go back to . . _. them_?"

"Well, first of all I didn't ascend, it was more in the nature of a temporary visit." Ama smiled again, her future seeming so much clearer than it had before she had stood on trial before the Great Powers. "And second, I like them better. You're all a bit too stuffy for my liking with your Celestial Law."

Baltar raised his eyebrows and then laughed out loud.

"I will not forget this," John said, apparently feeling slighted.

"Nor will I, my celestial friend," Ama replied, sensing it was time to go. Unbelievably, Starbuck was in trouble again. She really needed to have a talk with that boy. "Nor will I."

xxxxx

Teetering on his tiptoes, Starbuck was well aware that the IL Cylon could easily snap his neck should he choose to. Fortunately, the current pressure on his neck was bearable, keeping him more off balance than actually choking him, but Starbuck innately gripped the cybernetic hands anyway, trying futilely to pry them loose. The lights in Malus' skull were sparkling in strange patterns, like a laser ice carving pageant during Winter Solstice, but the Cylon's customized eyes remained locked on Starbuck's, indicative that the Viper pilot had the IL's undivided attention. Sections of the "brain" blazed, while others remained dark, the illumination shifting from area to area, giving the IL's cranium the appearance of a garish advertisement. Through Starbuck's peripheral vision, he could see Dayton making his way to the right and Lu to his left. With weapons drawn, they were flanking the IL. Malus turned slightly towards Dayton and Starbuck lost his footing again, gurgling aloud as his airway was briefly occluded, while his feet scrambled for purchase. He clung to the IL, his toes scraping the surface as he tried to regain his balance and his voice.

"Ho . . . hold your fire!" Starbuck rasped, feeling the pressure decrease ever so slightly. "Mal, it's _me_. C'mon, Mal. I know you're in there somewhere! If you have to, for Sagan's sake, then run the gall-monging self-diagnostic that's overdue! Maybe that'll set you straight about who your friends are!"

"_Starbuck_," Dayton growled, his displeasure obvious in his tone.

"Trust me, Old Man!" Starbuck said, and then abruptly corrected himself. "Trust _Malus_! Put the weapons down!"

"Kid, it was holoptics of _you_ that put Malus into kill-mode the first time around!" Dayton suddenly informed him, his weapon still seeking a clear shot. "We figured it was some kind of plan of Iblis' to kill you!"

"Oh, thanks! You, uh . . . you couldn't have mentioned that little detail before, huh?" Starbuck said nervously, staring into the glowing blue lights that he just couldn't read. Was Malus listening? Was he computing? Was he even _Malus_? Was the personality matrix he had come to know even in charge anymore? Did it even still exist, or had the most basic of Cylon programming, the directive to kill everyone and everything, taken over, and "Malus" was merely a shell? "Okay, Mal. Here I am in the flesh. What ya gonna do, buddy?" A couple microns later there was no response, but those cranial lights kept firing. "C'mon, Mal, we're sort of in a hurry here. I have plans for next sectar! Do the goddamned calculation already! We have work to do and we need your help!"

One diode at a time, the glowing blue eyes began oscillating, brightening as they did so. Agonizingly slowly, each one lit in sequence, moving inwards, then out, gaining speed with each cycle. Then, they began cycling at the usual speed, and the pattern of flashing lights in Malus' brain shifted, returning to "normal". Squeaky noise came from the IL's speaker grill, faster and then slower, high and low pitched, but no words he could recognize. Obviously, Mal was re-initialising his internal systems. After a moment, the pressure on Starbuck's neck eased ever so slightly. The Cylon set the Colonial Warrior back down on his feet.

"Welcome back, Starbuck," Malus said, pausing for a moment before pulling the warrior tightly to his chest plate, which felt a lot like being slammed into the side of a landram. "I missed you horribly."

Right on cue, four heavily armed warriors raced into the room led by Apollo. They staggered to a halt, eyes wide in surprise.

"Starbuck?" Apollo asked. "Commander Dayton? Luana?"

"I _think_ . . . we're okay," Dayton said tentatively. "Kid?"

"I'm alright."

After the initial shock wore off, it was still a little uncomfortable being hugged tightly by a cyborg, but Starbuck could only smile in relief as he was pressed into the hard, cold metal, wondering awkwardly where exactly to put his hands. He waited several microns, but the pressure didn't cease. His hands flailed as the IL suddenly started a rocking motion side to side. He drew the line at slow dancing with cyborgs, even those recently returned from the cybernetic hereafter. "Mal? Could you let me go?"

"I am experimenting with my recently installed tactility sensors, Starbuck," Malus explained. "Recalibrating the pressure feedback and thermal input analysers is crucial at this stage. It allows me to experience an embrace as a human might do. Right now I am calibrating my sensors to optimise my flow of pseudo-endorphins. Oh my, that feels _good_!"

"Pseudo-_what_?" Starbuck asked, stiffening even more.

"Pseudo-endorphins. They are dynamic stimulating impulses that radiate to my pleasure centre. Did you know that there are those who theorize that humans need a baseline minimum of four hugs a day to survive?" Malus continued. "Humans need eight hugs a day for maintenance, and twelve per day for growth. I believe I could achieve considerable emotional and spiritual growth with only one from you, Starbuck."

"Really," Starbuck replied flatly, hearing Dayton begin to chuckle off to the side.

"At least it's not _physical_ growth," Dayton said, deadpan. "I wouldn't have believed it, _Café Loco_, but that incredibly stupid, asinine, harebrained, impetuous, rash . . . did I say idiotic?"

"No," Luana replied. "But _I _sure will."

"Make that _bloody_ idiotic stunt you just pulled . . . well, you actually pulled it off."

"Did you ever," Luana added, putting her weapon back in its holster. "Welcome back, Malus."

"Thank you, Luana. But where did I go?" the IL asked.

"You don't remember?" Apollo asked.

"Mal!" Starbuck protested again, pushing against the IL's chest plate as the pressure again increased. "Let me go! I have lungs, you know! They need to expand!"

"As you wish, Starbuck," the IL replied, releasing him. He turned to address the fact that his primary power cells were now bypassed, and he was drawing energy from an auxiliary source. He made some internal alterations, adjusting to the slight variance in volponage and current values, as his back-up cells charged up.

"What's the last thing you remember before Starbuck turned you on, _Neon Noodle_?" Dayton asked.

"Turned him _back_ on," Starbuck clarified.

"You sure about that, kid?" Dayton ribbed him. The IL took a moment to access the appropriate data banks. "Well, Malus?"

"We were in the pyramid on Mars . . ." Malus' voice trailed off and his lights sped up again. Slowly, he looked around the lab, even while he disconnected himself from external wiring, switching over to his newly charged cells. "Oh my . . ."

"Do you remember now, Malus?" Apollo asked.

The IL hung his head low. "I am so ashamed. I knew for yahrens that there was a latent defect in my programming, but each and every time I considered initiating a diagnostic evaluation, I instead deferred it. I believed the defect to be the source of my individuality, and feared I would become like every other IL series Cylon were I to correct it. The likelihood of it being an aberrant program source code meant to destroy the very human who changed my existence was in actual fact about nine nonillion. . ."

"Then it was meant to target Starbuck?" Dayton interrupted the IL. "We were right about that?"

"Yes. I am horrified to admit that I was programmed to terminate one specific individual, the one who has become, in spite of the incredible improbability, my best forever friend, which presupposes . . . presupposes that my creators knew I would one day meet . . . _Starbuck_." He fell quiet for a long moment, staring at the table that had been his place of repose for so long. Then he raised his head. "Does that validate destiny, I wonder? It is certainly is a concept which I have never concluded had credence before. It is so . . . metaphysical. What do you think, Starbuck?" The IL turned to him.

"But that doesn't make any sense." Starbuck shook his head, struggling with the concept. "When Malus fell on his head off the assembly line, my own father wasn't even born! Commander Adama was in sleepers! That was well over a centi-yahren ago!"

"Obviously, Iblis installed some kind of safeguard to get you out of the picture, kid, just like he tried with me when _I_ was a little kid," Dayton replied.

"And Apollo the first time we encountered Iblis," Starbuck added, nodding at his friend. "But . . ."

Apollo frowned. "For some reason, buddy, you're a major threat to Count Iblis and his plans."

"But is it because of what you _have_ done or what you've _yet _to do, _Innamorato_?" Lu asked.

"You mean there's _more_?" Starbuck said, dropping his astrum wearily onto a workbench. "Oh God, there's more."

Apollo smiled, nodding. "Maybe—despite your obvious reluctance—you're destined for greatness, Starbuck."

"The only destiny I'm interested in right now is some quality time on my bunk," Starbuck returned, running a hand wearily over his face. "Besides, the Beings of Light implied that _you_ were the one destined for greatness, Apollo, not me. I'm just your trusty sidekick with the 'unrestrained spirit'."

Apollo chuckled, reaching over and gripping his friend's shoulder. "Actually, they never implied that at all. That's just your interpretation, buddy. I guess we all have our part to play in the battle against evil."

"And face it, none of _us_ are going to be on the guest list for Iblis' birthday party," Dayton added.

"Starbuck, I apologize profusely for what I did," Malus said. "I assure you that I would never intentionally harm you . . ."

"But you didn't _hurt_ him, Mal," Luana pointed out, shaking her head. She moved closer and smiled at the IL. "You didn't."

"I could not. Once I touched him and actually experienced the wonder of him for the first time beneath my new tactility sensors . . . well, he was so soft and yet so hearty and vigorous at the same time. I am uncertain if all humans are the same, having hugged only Starbuck since my latest upgrades, but he is a wonderful juxtaposition of sensory data that made my pseudo-endorphins clim. . ."

"Enough already, Mal!" Starbuck insisted, covering his ears and shaking his head. He really didn't want to hear anymore.

"For Starbuck you somehow managed to override your own programming, Malus," Dayton said with a wide grin as he watched Starbuck squirm. "Now _that's_ love."

"I believe you are correct, Commander," Malus agreed. "Although my latent programming was driving my actions, I knew that deep down in my central core that it was wrong. I could never hurt Starbuck. Never."

From grieving the IL's loss to wishing him dead all in the space of five centons, such was Starbuck's relationship with Malus. "Mal, why don't you get to the Control Centre? I hear they had some problems with the Clavis. If we're going to get back to the Fleet anytime soon, you'd better take a look." He noticed Dayton avert his eyes. _Later_.

"If you are certain you do not need me here, Starbuck?" Malus asked.

"I'm certain. After all, no one has amassed the amount of data on the Clavis that you have. You're invaluable in the Control Centre. Especially now. _Right_ now, Mal."

"Thank you for not giving up on me, Starbuck, and for putting your trust in me, as I have put my trust in you forevermore. I will never forget it," Malus averred, turning to go before hesitating a moment. He turned again to engage them. "I suppose it is true what they say."

"What do they say?" Apollo asked.

"Trust does not rust."

"They didn't exactly leave you out in the rain, Mal," Starbuck replied, beginning to lose his patience. He stood up, pointing towards the corridor. "Control Centre. _Now!_"

"Yes, Starbuck." The IL bowed briefly before disappearing through the hatch.

"How the Hades do you do it, Starbuck? You played that just like it was a pyramid hand! How did you know?" Apollo asked, turning back to his friend, shaking his head and letting out a small laugh. "I mean, I assume you wouldn't have taken the risk without some kind of hunch . . . right?"

"I took a chance." Starbuck shrugged, not wanting to dwell on his belief that Mal just wouldn't hurt him. After all, a Cylon taking a liking to a Colonial Warrior didn't really make a whole lot of sense to most of them, including Starbuck. He turned to Dayton. After all the flack he had taken over the last yahren for not admitting his limitations to his commanding officer, this time he was going to be completely honest. "Are you sure you need me down on Earth again, Dayton? I don't know what use I'm going to be to you. I'm done in."

"All I need is your presence, kid, and maybe for you to change into a slightly less dusty uniform," Dayton reassured him, draping an arm over his shoulders and leading him back to the corridor. "Earth needs to see that their newest superhero is still in one piece and that the _Endeavour_ is no threat. Just paste on that mega-watt smile of yours and look pretty."

"You mean devastatingly handsome," Starbuck corrected him, letting his commander urge him forward once again.

"That's just your interpretation, _Macchiato Man_," Dayton replied, propelling the strike captain down the corridor with an obvious spring in his step. "Besides, I'm _home_. I'm actually about to set foot on Earth again for the first time in over thirty years. It's my turn to show _you_ around _my_ old stomping grounds. After all we've been through together, you _have_ to be there." He paused a moment, and then shrugged. "It would mean a lot to me, kid."

"Well, in that case I wouldn't miss it, Old Man."

xxxxx

Dickins shaded his eyes against the sun, searching the sky, waiting on his friends. Shifting from foot to foot, he couldn't help but think that it had been a complete shit show from the time he'd left Planet 'P' with Hummer in the partially refitted NASA Space Shuttle _Endeavour_, right up to when that luxury suite on Capitol Hill had blown apart. Everything that could go wrong _had_. Despite it all, his little group of Hummer, Grae Ryan, and General Roach were all standing there at Joint Base Andrews ready to indulge in both pomp and ceremony with world leaders, several levels of American politicians, media, civilians and military security all coming out the yin yang. As soon as Dayton and the gang arrived there would be a political tongue wag, followed by a respectful memorial for the dead, culminating in a victory celebration over the Cylons. And they had managed to get it all together in record time while simultaneously putting out fires in Congress. Not bad for government work. In fact, it was bloody amazing.

"Dick?" Hummer asked, nudging him. Concern was pooled in the other's dark eyes.

"I don't know, Hummer," Dick admitted, shrugging his shoulders expressively, trying to convey that there wasn't anything specific bothering him.

"Anna?" Hummer asked.

"No, it's not Anna." Dick smiled sadly. He had waited thirty years to be reunited with his beautiful Anna, and when at last he had been, he hadn't known what to say or what to do. That first meeting had been exquisite, but then they had lapsed into an uncomfortable silence when finally left alone. What did a battered and scarred old astronaut talk about to a fragile wife he barely even knew how to relate to anymore? She had seemingly expected him to catch her up on his news, to be deliriously happy to be home, but what he'd barely lived through wasn't fit to share with his family and it took a heck of a lot of Asteroid Whiskey these days to make him "happy". He was a shell of the man he used to be.

When he'd found out back at the UN Complex that Starbuck was in trouble and needed his help, it had been a relief to make his excuses and extract himself. When his grandson, Mitch, had volunteered to help out, it had been a pleasant enough diversion, but Dick now realized he was much better at relating to compatriots than women these days. And a thirty-year bond between old friends left him with a more urgent desire to be reunited with Dayton, Ryan, Baker and Porter again than to be returned to the awkwardness of family relations waiting in New York City. To be among his friends was a secure haven that he longed for. No expectations. No judgments. No questions. Unconditional acceptance.

He swallowed anxiously when he spotted the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off the nose of the Hybrid shuttlecraft as it broke through the cloud cover. With all that had happened so far, a jaded old guy couldn't help but wonder what was coming next. Whatever it was, he'd be there, ready and waiting. Maybe a bit too eagerly, in retrospect.

xxxxx

As the hatch of the shuttlecraft opened, Mark Dayton stood poised on the threshold. The anticipation was almost enough to shoot his blood pressure back up into space. It was a lot like re-entering Earth's atmosphere in a spacecraft. He knew the motions he would go through, but there were still elements of apprehension and risk involved, stepping back into territory that was both familiar and foreign to him after an absence of thirty years.

"What are you waiting for?" Ryan asked him, poking him insistently in the back.

"Just building the anticipation," Dayton replied, glancing back at those in the shuttle.

"Move your ass, Geraldo Rivera," Baker said, "I'm not waiting through another commercial break to see Al Capone's vault."

Ryan, Baker and Porter were practically prancing in excitement to get out there. Meanwhile, consumed with curiosity, Apollo, Luana and Lia were looking out a viewport, taking in everything they could see, while Jolly and Dietra remained on the flight deck. Dayton's daughters and their WASA compatriots were on their feet, impatiently waiting to disembark. Then there was Starbuck. The strike captain was burrowed into a seat, stifling a large yawn as he returned to the living from a brief snooze he had stolen on the way down.

"Hey, kid," Dayton said to Starbuck with a fond smile, "we keeping you up?"

"As a matter of fact . . ." Starbuck returned, arching his back and stretching as he raked his fingers through his recently trimmed hair. He looked up at his commander. "Better get out there, Old Man, or they're going to start to wonder if you're having second thoughts about this alliance."

"Not without you, Starbuck. Remember, there are a lot of people out there who think you and Lauren are dead." Dayton shook his head. "We're all in this together, _Cappuccino Cowboy_."

The younger man shook his head. "No. This is _your_ moment. All of yours." He nodded towards the other Earthers. "It's _your_ homecoming. We'll follow soon enough."

"Starbuck's right," Apollo said, now also fitted with a languaphone for easier translation while he was down on Earth. "I'll bet there were times when you thought you'd never see your home again." The colonel glanced at his best friend and then Lu and Lia, and it was clear that all the Colonial Warriors were thinking of their own beloved home worlds, now star systems away. "I can only imagine how you must feel right now."

"Bloody impatient, mostly," Porter replied with a teasing lilt. "Move it, Dayton, or your first appearance on Earth will be less than dignified when we bodily pick you up and carry you out the hatch!"

"Come on, Dad," said Lauren. "Time to go where no Dayton has gone before."

"That's _boldly_ go, Sis," said Jess.

"Actually, I _was_ here once back in . . ."

"DAD!"

"Alright, already!" Dayton chuckled, stepping out into the daylight, a nearby camera zeroing in on him.

"_Commander Mark Dayton_!" a loudspeaker announced like he was the first of a starting line-up for game night.

Dayton had already seen the civilian crowd that was amassed to welcome them at Joint Base Andrews, but he couldn't help but swell up with pride when they roared their approval, fists and victory 'Vs' pumping into the air, the air crackling with excitement and celebration. A second later the loudspeaker announced his friends in kind as the four men walked down the few steps together and then stepped foot on the tarmac, pausing there a moment to take it all in while the crowd whipped themselves into a barely-controlled hysteria.

The media was prominent, capturing the moment and simultaneously telecasting it on an enormous screen so the crowd and everybody else around the world could see the infamous _Endeavour_ astronauts returning from the past, either live or in recaps. The screen split and part of it showed live footage while the other was displaying a history of the missing NASA astronauts with a brief summation of recent events so there was no doubt in even the most out-of-touch person's mind about who these men were. Dignitaries and grandstanders that were mostly unknown to Dayton stood aside on a podium, waiting patiently to get an official ceremony underway. Meanwhile, three men strode forward, separating themselves from the others. Dayton could tell even from a hundred yards away that it was Dickins, Hummer and Grae Ryan.

There was an inexplicable tightness in his chest and the backs of his eyes prickled, warning Dayton of an impending emotional overload as he gazed upon his old friend. Behind him, Ryan let out a whoop of joy, darting past the commander with his arms dramatically outstretched like a cartoon character as he raced towards the lost members of their flock and his son. Dayton couldn't help but laugh at his best friend's antics, as Ryan practically tackled his boy and then Dickins in turn, enveloping both men in a collective bear hug before turning to pump Hummer's hand energetically.

Moments later it was almost surreal as Dayton pulled a grinning Dickins into a hearty hug, slapping him on the back. The atmosphere was electric, the noise unbelievable.

"You have Starbuck and Lauren?" Dickins shouted in his ear.

"We do!" Dayton assured him, wondering how Dick had known.

"In that case, welcome home!" Dickins said before he turned to embrace both Baker and Porter.

Then Dayton greeted Hummer and the younger Ryan, before standing back to just enjoy the moment.

Finally, the crowd's energy slightly abated, only to once again whip into frenzy as the loudspeaker began to announce the names of those now departing the Hybrid shuttlecraft.

"_WASA Director Jess Dayton; the celebrated and renowned journalist and obviously very much alive, L.M. Dayton; recently rescued from the Barstow Mars Station, Commander Tom Curtis; also from Barstow Station, Professor Ahmed Mufti; WASA astronauts, Alan Carter and Dillon Trent_."

They were all getting their moment in the limelight as they moved to join the old NASA astronauts. Once again the screen split, showing the history of the evolved WASA with their very own website information about Barstow Station, including its recent destruction and the rescue by the _Endeavour _crew. Once again the crowd showed their support, almost making those in WASA forget that they had once been ridiculed and victimized by politicians who had thought that the space agency had their collective heads in the clouds. For far too many years WASA had fought an uphill battle to continue space exploration and development in a bureaucratic environment that no longer supported it, after the Anakim's adroit linking of NASA in the media with the International Space Station terrorism event of 2010. Both Dayton and Ryan noted with interest the intimate embrace Jess and Grae exchanged, and Mark adeptly deflected the elbow that Paddy directed his way.

Finally, there was another ebb in the hullabaloo and Starbuck finally emerged from the shuttle, Apollo evidently choosing to let his friend have the spotlight. If it was possible, the energy level shot up another notch, people screaming in adoration, jumping excitedly, and then beginning to chant, "STARBUCK! STARBUCK! STARBUCK! STARBUCK!"

"_Obviously, needing no introduction, and also alive and well, the Colonial Warrior who led our squadrons against the Cylon threat_ _and has laughed repeatedly in the face of death_ . . ." the loudspeaker decreed as military personnel joined the civilians in their tribute.

"STARBUCK! STARBUCK! STARBUCK! STARBUCK!" the amassed crowd shouted, some waving coffee cups, while the lone Colonial Warrior descended the stairs, turning about in apparent amazement as the obvious devotion of those gathered swept over him. There was a boom in the distance, and within seconds the Blue Angels—the US Navy's aerobatic team—soared in from the east, flying in spectacular formation. It was a tribute that the impeccable timing decreed was for Starbuck alone.

"Leave it to Starbuck to steal our thunder!" Ryan hollered into Dayton's ear, a big ole grin on his face as he watched the aerial display, while a blonde bombshell in short shorts and high heels carrying a fur ball of some sort suddenly threw herself into the handsome young warrior's arms, pressing herself against him as his hands helplessly clawed the air in surprise. It was almost comical.

"Might need the Jaws of Life to separate them, Paddy," Dayton said. A moment later his mouth was agape as the big screen began a chronicle of Starbuck's time on Earth, captured through sometimes-candid shots. It occurred to him that at some point Starbuck had rescued this young woman from a bridge in New York. Dayton shook his head in disbelief as he watched a death defying replay of the two's narrow escape from a collapsing bridge deck, which his young friend had actually glossed over in his apparently spotty and possibly condensed debriefing. Yeah, with what Starbuck had gone through, the kid deserved every little bit of Rock Star status that he had achieved.

"STARBUCK! STARBUCK! STARBUCK! STARBUCK!" the crowd roared again. Dayton punched a fist in the air in time to their chant, joining their exuberant cheering.

From the threshold of the shuttlecraft, Apollo, Jolly, Lia, Luana and Dietra stood, shaking their heads in disbelief and amusement while Starbuck extracted himself somewhat from the young woman's embrace, taking her more innocently by the hand and leading her to meet his friends and wife.

"Lu's going to kill him," Ryan laughed.

"I don't think so," Dayton replied, watching the curvaceous young blonde press a small puppy into Luana's arms. The commander had noticed in the Life Station that Luana had made quite a mental adjustment since this mission had begun. Not surprisingly, when faced with potentially losing her husband on Earth, she had worked her way past the pain and resentment of her infertility, realizing what she already had instead of dwelling upon what she might never get.

"_Ethan Dalrymple Gibson, the fifty-second President of the United States of America_," the speaker announced.

"That's our cue," Dayton said, turning in surprise to suddenly find himself face to face with the American President who had come down off his podium to greet them eagerly.

The political leader of the United States reached forward, offering his hand in fellowship amid the slightly more subdued applause of the crowd. "Welcome home, Commander Dayton. And God bless you all for your timing."

"Thank you, Mr. President," Dayton replied, turning as Starbuck and his fellow Colonial Warriors finally joined them.

Emotion once again threatened to overwhelm Dayton when a military band started playing _the_ _Star-Spangled Banner_. It had been so long . . . Proudly, the _Endeavour_ commander stood erectly, turning instinctively towards the flag of his homeland, endless memories racing through his mind, as the anthem filled him up with something that he hadn't even realized had been missing. As an almost forgotten patriotism suffused him, his chest hitched and tears welled in his eyes. He tried to clear his throat, but he found himself unable to join the singing throng all around him.

Beside him, Paddy gripped his shoulder, not surprisingly sensing his distress.

Dayton sucked in a deep breath, trying to get a hold of himself. It was quite the moment and one that he would never forget for as long as he lived. His tattered reputation had been restored, he had been hailed as a returning hero, he had been reunited with his family, and he had his best friends around him.

They had made it.

"_Hay_, Strawman," Paddy Ryan said in his ear. To anyone else it would have been cryptic. "Your stuffing is falling out."

Dayton smiled, turning to his friend in complete understanding. "Ain't it the truth, Toto." His voice was gruff with feeling. "You know, Paddy, as crazy as it might seem at times . . . there really is no place like home."

xxxxx

With his eyes closed, Starbuck let out a long, slow breath, sinking luxuriously into the leather upholstery in the stretch limo that he was riding in. It even _smelled_ good, reminiscent of a fine new ride he'd one _appropriated_ as a kid on the streets of Caprica City. Smiling, he was soon in that state of mind between wakefulness and sleep where voices became barely distinguishable murmurs.

"I love you, _Innamorato_," came Luana's dulcet voice as she snuggled up against him. In her lap was the baby daggit that Snow White had given them, apparently part of a litter her own daggit—make that _dog—_had sired. What Starbuck was going to do with a live daggit on a spaceship he wasn't sure, but Lu was already smitten with the tiny creature, and he couldn't help but wonder if it could somehow satisfy her nurturing instinct, maybe in part filling the void that he darn well knew he couldn't.

The ticklish sensation of the daggit lathing his hand drew him once against back from the sweet edge of oblivion, and he opened his eyes long enough to stroke the soft fur, smiling slightly at the near-black lop-eared whelp that was creeping into his lap.

"What are you going to call him, Lu?" Dayton's voice came from across the seat. Beside him sat President Gibson, and on the other side his daughters.

"That depends on whether you're going to allow him on the _Endeavour_," came his wife's pragmatic and direct response.

Apollo sniffed in amusement from Starbuck's other side. "I once heard that interacting with daggits can actually be therapeutic, lessening anxiety and stress," the colonel inserted.

"Until you interact with the pooper-scooper, that is," Jess retorted.

Apollo chuckled across at her.

Starbuck opened his eyes, waiting for Dayton's answer, and it wasn't long before their eyes met. Dayton let out a long sigh, obviously stringing together the same thoughts that Starbuck had earlier. This wasn't just about a daggit on a Base Ship; it was potentially the saving grace for his wife. But then again, Dayton was a hard case when it came to the rules, which meant that Starbuck usually needed to find a way around them. But how?

Idly he wondered if Dayton had had a daggit as a kid.

"Let me give it some thought, Lu. No promises," Dayton allowed in a softer voice.

"Fair enough."

They were in the last of three cars in the motorcade transporting the entire group to the White House, where there would be more meetings of minds before a formal alliance was drafted between the Twelve Colonies of Man and Earth. By and large they had broken almost every guideline that Commander Adama had laid down at the outset of the mission. Starbuck could just imagine how outraged the Council would be when they found out the _Endeavour_ crew had not only revealed themselves to the Earthlings, but they had also skipped over waiting for a bureaucratic envoy. Commander Cain would be in his glory throwing accusations at Dayton for disobeying orders that he probably would have ignored as well. Lords, if only Ama could show up just now. As a member of the Council she could bail them out of a sketchy predicament, and maybe even grant Dayton a little more time with his family . . .

A blinding light nearly knocked his eyes out, and he threw up an arm as a shield.

_Bump! Bump!_

"What the hell was that?" Dayton demanded, as the vehicle seemed to bounce over something.

"Driver! Stop the car!" Gibson ordered, the brakes shrieking as the car swerved to a stop. Almost before the car had stopped, the hulking security guys had their weapons out, and were checking in with their fellows.

Starbuck almost butted heads with Dayton as the two leapt up at the same time to jump out the door. Not feeling particularly gracious, Starbuck grasped the commander by the shoulder, pushing him out of the way as he opened the door and cleared it. He found himself standing at the side of a road in front of a java house, a light breeze blowing through his hair as the security guards surveyed the perimeter. About half way between him and the front door was Ama.

"Hello, Son of My Heart."

It was unexpected to say the least, and he stood there mutely for a long moment, drinking in the sight of the Empyrean necromancer that he had lost track of. There were times when he'd thought her dead or _evolved_ as John had once described those beings on the Ship of Lights. Leave it to her to disappear and then return in a flash of light like nothing had happened.

"Lu!" he called behind him, as Dayton stumbled to a stop beside him.

"Well, I'll be a . . ." the commander muttered, while others began climbing out of the car. "Did we run over her broomstick?"

"Starbuck, what's going . . .?" Lu asked, emerging from the vehicle. "_Ama_!"

His wife flew into her godmother's arms, while Starbuck followed more slowly. Ama watched him almost cagily as he drew closer, the baby daggit following along like his shadow. There was something different about the great lady that he couldn't put into words. From the beginning, she'd always been there for him. But now, inexplicably, he had the sense that it was _their_ turn to comfort _her_.

"Ama?" he said. "Are you alright?"

"Well, I look a darn sight better than _you_ do," she announced, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "You and I need to sit down and have a heart to heart. I swear you're getting _more _reckless these days."

"Hey! I recognize her!" Lauren announced from behind them. "She helped me out when I was evading Mason's men at Fullerton Station! Who is she, Dad?"

"Starbuck's godmother-in-law. At least that's the simple answer, sweetheart."

Starbuck took Ama's hand, gently drawing her out of Luana's embrace. Then he stood before her, reaching behind her head and bowing his own down to hers until their foreheads met. He gazed into her grey eyes, searching them for answers. She seemed so fragile and delicate, like a flower that would bruise and die if treated too harshly.

"That only works for me, Dear Heart," she said in amusement. "Although after all this time, I certainly appreciate the sentiment."

"Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't," he replied, leaning forward and gently brushing his lips against hers in a chaste kiss. "I don't know what you've been through, but until you're ready to tell us I just want to say that you're home now, Ama. We have you."

"Sweet boy, I was hoping you'd say something like that," she replied, her eyes welling with tears of gratitude.

He pulled her into his embrace, stroking the wild white hair as if she were a child. He was sure he could feel her tremble. Lu joined them, her arm wrapped around the older woman protectively.

"Would you look at that?" Dayton said behind him, pointing over their heads.

That was when Starbuck noticed the green and white logo behind him, portraying a likeness of . . . an image that looked remarkably like himself. Apparently, they had come to a stop in front of a _Starbucks_ coffee house, and all the rumours about the business switching its logo to honour Earth's newest superhero had been true.

"Did you arrange this?" Starbuck murmured down at Ama. He nodded towards the sign.

"Me?" she asked innocently.

"That's what I thought," replied Starbuck.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't," she replied, pulling away, but keeping an arm around Luana. "Well?"

"Oh, we _have_ to go in!" Dayton enthused, turning to the President who was looking at him incredulously, security men swarming about him. "_He's_ the original Starbuck!"

"Well, Melville might have something to say about that," Lauren inserted with a smile.

"Melville's dead," Jess replied.

"Then we're off the hook. What do you say, Mr. President? Can I buy you a coffee?" Lauren asked.

Not surprisingly, Gibson looked at his watch, before looking up again at the small group who waited expectantly. When did presidents take precious time out of their busy day to sit in a coffee shop? The President sniffed aloud, shaking his head. The other cars had carried on without them on Gibson's orders. "Oh, what the heck. I could do with a double cappuccino, half-caf, non-fat milk, with just enough foam to be aesthetically pleasing, but not so much that it leaves a moustache. You, Starbuck?"

Which lead Starbuck to one of the most comfortable chairs he had ever experienced, waiting drowsily to be bought "coffee" by the President of the United States. One thing he could say about this place was that it was comfortable. Oh, and he loved their decorator. Framed art of himself was featured in several places on the walls. Dayton was sitting beside him, regaling him with java anecdotes while picking up various periodicals and magazines that featured Starbuck, front and centre. The girl brought their orders, proclaiming it was "on the house" and then found some excuse, like most of the rest of the staff, to linger near the great ones assembled there.

"What part of 'covert' exactly was it that you didn't understand, _Demitasse_?" Dayton asked, holding up today's copy of _TIME__._ On the cover was a shot of Starbuck at the U.N. with the headline "_Star Man?__" _ On the table in front of them he was also featured on _Newsweek__. There was _another shot of him on a third cover, purloined somehow from Russia. According to Jess, the cover translated as _"__Saviour From The Stars?__"_

"What part of 'you will do everything possible to prevent being detected by Earthmen' did _you_ let slip by, Old Man?" Starbuck countered, sinking a little further down into his chair. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh of contentment. He just _had_ to get one of these for his duty office. Of course, it was almost as _big_ as his office.

"Some might say we're both guilty of disobeying Adama's orders," Dayton said, his voice sounding further away. "Okay, okay. Yeah, I made contact with Barstow Station. But _you_ attacked the Cylons."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Starbuck mumbled sluggishly. "After all, that's what I _do_." He opened his eyes long enough to sip . . . _ahhhhh! __. . . _and then closed them again.

When Dayton replied, his voice was throaty. "Look, kid, you saved Jess' life when you attacked those Cylons. And later on you saved Lauren's when you negotiated with Mason." A long moment of silence passed. "I don't quite know how to thank you for that."

Lords, a humble Dayton was a terrible thing to behold, and was to be averted if at all possible! Starbuck's eyes snapped open, as a way out presented itself. "Let Lu keep the daggit."

Dayton paused for a moment, leaning over the arm of his chair and regarding him sourly. He shook a finger under Starbuck's nose. "That's low, even for you. A dog on a Base Ship! It's ridiculous."

"You're the one who wanted to thank me. Or so you _said_, Old Man," Starbuck replied with a shrug as Dayton sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's it going to be, Dayton?"

"Keep the bloody dog."

"Maybe we'll name him after you."

"You do and I'll lock you in a room with Malus, and you two can test drive his new tactility sensors. Exhaustively."

"Or . . ." Starbuck reconsidered. "We could call him Shadow."

"Shadow. Much better. Now drink your damn coffee before you fall asleep in it."

Starbuck grinned. Humbleness averted, Dayton was back in form. "Yes, Sir."

"Captain Starbuck?" asked a voice.

Starbuck looked over to behold an attractive young woman, one of the servers, all wide-eyed and agog. "Just call me Starbuck."

"Starbuck," she repeated, flushing prettily. "Can I have your autograph?

"Uh, my . . ."

"And maybe get you to pose for a picture with our staff?" She nodded towards a group of eager young girls, all standing by excitedly, awaiting his answer.

With daggit in lap, Lu gave him a look, rolling her eyes before smiling in a grudging acceptance. Fortunately a bunch of young girls in a java shop wasn't exactly anything for her to get excited about, and they both knew it.

"My pleasure," Starbuck replied, unwinding his lithe frame from the chair and giving her his best "mega-watt grin". Maybe Earth wasn't such a bad place, after all. He just needed to give it a chance while he wasn't under fire . . .

"Hey, kid," Dayton called after him.

"Yeah, Old Man?" Starbuck replied, accepting the young woman's hand and letting her lead him across the java house.

"I was just thinking," Dayton chuckled, raising his mug to the warrior, "it's a damn good thing your name isn't Hooter!"


	66. Chapter Twenty Six: Part One

Epilogue

The klaxon pierced the air and Starbuck jumped out of his skin in his duty office, while his four-sectar-old daggit started jumping and barking in alarm. It was a red alert, the tones dictating what everyone would do next. Starbuck leapt to his feet, almost tripping over Shadow as he reached for the telecom.

"Down!" he told the dog, before connecting. With a low whimper the daggit immediately lay down, unaccustomed to the din. "Good boy!"

"_Control Centre_."

"Captain Starbuck!" he reported in.

"_Report to the Control Centre, Captain, on the double_!" came the reply before he disconnected.

It wasn't exactly an enlightening conversation.

"Frack!" Starbuck cursed, tearing out of the office, wondering what on Earth was happening, while he ripped past others heading towards their duty stations. It had been about eight sectons since the _Ravager_ had been destroyed, and since then the _Endeavour_ had—among other things—primarily focused on peacekeeping and relief efforts. Before this, it had never occurred to Starbuck that as much energy could be expelled on maintaining peace as there was in destroying it.

Death toll: twenty-two million and counting.

Already, bit by bit, survivors and relief personnel were beginning to trickle back into what had once been Las Vegas and Mexico City after the radion levels had dissipated. Bit by painful bit, the dead were mourned. Hectare by hectare the devastation was cleared, and structures once more began to rise. The _Endeavour _herself played no small part. One of her holds had been filled with equipment used to construct bunkers and other ground installations on planetary surfaces for Cylon occupation forces. Virtually all of it, including over ten thousand tons of Megacrete, an incredibly strong, quick-setting casting material, was made available by order of Commander Dayton, along with crew to operate them. Also by his order, the formula was made available free of charge to every nation on Earth, along with Cylon metallurgy and related sciences. Within days, the rudiments of a government had once more begun to function in Mexico City, and Vegas was not far behind.

Of course, rebuilding a world so battered was hardly going to be cheap. With the assistance of the Brothers of Eden and the use of the _Endeavour'_s computers and the reconstituted satellite network, Mal had once more shown his worth. Within a few days, hundreds of bank accounts all over the world, including many never meant to be found, had mysteriously emptied, much to the chagrin of various now exposed members of the _Anakim_. Almost at once other accounts appeared, providing hundreds of billions to aid the rebuilding efforts. Thousands upon thousands of tons of gold bullion—including that once housed in the now-defunct Federal Reserve Bank in New York—went mysteriously missing, turning up on markets from stock exchanges to jewellery traders around the globe, providing food, water and medical help to those who needed it most. Even so, it was just a start.

Starbuck reached the ladderwell and leapt up the first few rungs, propelling himself upward until he heard the bark of his daggit below him. Of course, not receiving any commands to the contrary, the daggit had followed. Shadow was still young, and as Lu kept telling everyone, his master was woefully inexperienced.

"Home!" Starbuck shouted, hearing the usual low whine before Shadow obeyed, heading back to quarters. Starbuck resumed his upward climb, feeling his tunic clinging to him from the coffee he'd spilled all over himself when the klaxon had sounded. Moments later he jumped to the deck, tore down another corridor, and launched himself through the hatch into the Control Centre.

Where the bridge crew was calmly waiting for him.

"What the . . .?"

"Report, Captain!" Apollo ordered, his manner relaxed, but his orders curt.

"Uh, Apollo . . . is this a drill?" Starbuck wracked his brain trying to remember reading a memo that had discussed an upcoming drill, but he came up blank.

"Report, Captain!" Apollo repeated, less relaxed, the klaxon still wailing.

"Triton Squadron standing by for launch, Colonel," Starbuck replied, the roster at this point emblazoned into his brain. "Phoenix Squadron awaiting orders."

"Captain?" Apollo asked Dorado.

"Affirmative on that, sir," Dorado confirmed from a station. "Both Phoenix and Triton Leaders report all ready."

Apollo nodded, glancing at his chrono. "Good work, everyone. Secure from Red Alert. Have both squadrons stand by in Beta Bay for inspection."

"Inspection?" Starbuck asked aloud.

"Yes, sir!" Dorado replied crisply, relaying the orders.

"Yes, inspection, Captain," Apollo replied, breezing by him. "You may have heard of it. It's that military protocol whereby a superior officer takes the time to mention you have java all over your tunic." He paused at the hatch, turning to raise his eyebrows at his astonished subordinate officer. "Captain? I presume you'd like to be there when I inspect your squadron?"

"Wouldn't miss it, Colonel," Starbuck replied, hurriedly falling in behind the executive officer.

It was as though Starbuck had been thrust into an alternate dimension . . . which wasn't routinely achieved by reviewing evaluations and assigning instruction modules to his pilots. No, he couldn't very well blame this one on Ama. Maybe if he cleverly probed his old friend, carefully wheedling answers out of him . . . but that wasn't really his style.

"What climbed up your turbo thrusters and lodged itself sideways this morning?" Starbuck asked.

Apollo came to a halt so abruptly in front of him that the captain collided with the colonel. Starbuck put out his hands on impact, reflexively taking an urgent step backwards as Apollo whipped around to face him.

"Do you want me to put you on report _with_ your daggit, Starbuck?" Apollo snapped at him, before frowning, apparently realizing what he'd said. He closed his eyes briefly before turning a glare that Tigh would be proud of back on the captain.

"My daggit's on report?" Starbuck repeated, shaking his head in bemusement as the withering gaze blasted him. His training kicked in. "Sir."

"You're behind in your reports, Captain," Apollo suddenly said. "Performance evals, maintenance updates, shuttle logs, patrol rosters, and cargo manifests. I can't help but wonder if your public relations drive on Earth is interfering with your duty. Especially when you wear your favourite java blend to a Red Alert." He turned a scathing gaze on Starbuck's uniform, briefly fingering the damp material, then as much as snarled, "_Colonial Capitano_?"

"Hey, it was _your_ klaxon that made me dump coffee all over my uniform while I was sitting at my desk getting my evals done and pouring over . . ." Starbuck's words trailed off as he watched Apollo actually cross his arms over his chest, staring at him impassively. It his heart he knew it didn't matter what he said in his own defence, right now in Apollo's eyes he was daggit meat. It was completely out of character for the colonel and behaviour more becoming officers like Commander Kronus from a generation ago. Something was going on here that he wasn't aware of. Finally, he decided to appeal to the friend he could only hope was still buried somewhere beneath that bullying military pomposity. "What the frack is this all about, Apollo? Did something happen?"

An uncomfortable silence hung between them for a long moment before Apollo took a step back, putting a little more distance between the men. He let out a long sigh. "Two things."

"_What_ two things?" Starbuck asked.

"The Clavis pulsed." Apollo waited a moment as Starbuck's mouth dropped open in alarm. "And I slipped in daggit mong the consistency of mess gruel this morning, sliding a couple metrons before becoming airborne and landing flat on my back."

Starbuck winced at the visual. "Sorry 'bout that, buddy."

"So are my other boots," Apollo retorted, letting a shadow of a smile cross over his features for the briefest of moments. "They're in your quarters waiting to be cleaned, by the way."

Starbuck let out a breath, somewhat convinced the old Apollo was back. "What's the word on the Clavis? Did Mal take a look?"

"He ran some algorithms, but still couldn't explain it," Apollo replied. "But we all remember what happened the last time it did this. It took over the ship, Starbuck."

"But that's impossible. I thought we ended up attributing that to some entity that Ama warded off, or so you guys said in the debriefing," Starbuck replied. "_It's_ gone."

Apollo frowned, contemplating it. "Could it be a message from Ama down on Earth? A warning?"

"Ama's, uh . . . not usually that cryptic, buddy," Starbuck replied. "Besides, since she came back, she hasn't probed my mind or tried to bleed me even once. It's almost as if she's turning her back on those powers she developed when she was with Iblis. Sagan's sake, she even demanded I assign her a couple pilots to fly her between centres of government down on Earth." He glanced at his chrono. "In fact, she should be returning from Pakistan shortly. She was supposed to be going down to Earth with me for Dayton's Chicago shindig. Too bad Lu has duty . . ."

"_Another_ party?" Apollo asked, a note of incredulity in his voice as he crossed to a telecom. "What's the occasion _this_ time?"

"Labour Day," Starbuck said. "It's some sort of holiday."

"They celebrate labour?" Apollo asked, finger paused over the comm.

"I guess so," Starbuck shrugged. "But the way I hear it, they celebrate it by _not_ doing it, which appeals to me on more than one level."

"Yeah, it would," Apollo sniffed in amusement before returning to the matter at hand. "Could it be Iblis affecting the Clavis, I wonder?" he mused aloud before activating the telecom. "Control Centre, this is Colonel Apollo. What's the ETA on Councilwoman Ama?"

"_Councilwoman Ama's Hybrid is landing now in Beta Bay, Sir."_

"C'mon," Apollo said, taking Starbuck by the arm and guiding him down the corridor before letting go. "We can ask her ourselves."

"And _then_ do a snap inspection?"

"Uh . . . yeah." It took him about two microns before he justified it. "I'm just trying to maintain discipline, Starbuck. Things are getting a bit lax around here and we need to keep the ranks on their toes. The only way to do that in times of peace is through drills; you know that. This _is _a military ship."

"That explains those mega-pulsars, huh?"

"_Starbuck_ . . ."

"C'mon, Apollo, our warriors have been pulling double duty between relief efforts on Earth and their responsibilities here, not to mention repairs and supply. Personally, I've been about three sectars behind ever since I became the strike captain. Every time I come up for air, four or five supposedly urgent matters bury me again, and Mal won't help anymore unless I let him hug me. Let me tell you, buddy, trying to find some balance in there with Lu and her family, it's practically impossible to actually . . ."

Apollo dropped his gaze, turning away for the briefest of moments before looking back at his friend almost irritably.

Starbuck stopped short, giving the gesture some thought. It occurred to him that since they had departed for Earth, Apollo suddenly had a very big _personal_ hole in his life. "_Ahh_!"

"_Ah_, what?" Apollo asked, once again stopping in the corridor to face his friend.

"You think it's time to get back to the Fleet, don't you?"

Apollo narrowed his eyes, resting his hands loosely on his hips, looking defensive. "And I'm thinking that based on _what_, exactly?

"Well . . ." Starbuck tried to keep his features impassive reckoning that 'because you miss your family, idiot' probably wouldn't go over very well at this juncture. Hey, who said he couldn't be discreet when he really put his mind to it . . .

"And if you're thinking it's because I'm missing my family, well there's a lot more to it than that, Starbuck!" Apollo didn't raise his voice so much as he raised his intensity. "While we're _here_ helping Earth solve her own problems, somewhere out _there_ the Cylons are still hunting ourpeople!"

Starbuck stood there silently for a moment, thinking about it. He'd been so busy with other things that he hadn't really given it much thought. After all, there seemed to be so much that needed doing in Earth's star system that it only seemed natural that they help out their Earth brothers. It was sort of like getting a home ready before you moved into it. You wanted everything perfect . . . or in Earth's case, at the very least not on the brink of a nuclear war. Meanwhile, far across the galaxy . . .

"You're right," Starbuck said.

Apollo took an audible breath, obviously prepared to continue to defend his point and not expecting complete agreement. He waved a hand in the air before saying grudgingly, "Of course, I'm right."

"_You_ want to tell Dayton?" Starbuck grinned.

"You think I haven't already?" Apollo countered.

"I don't know," Starbuck crossed his arms over his chest, and then stroked his chin. "Apparently, I missed _that _Command meeting."

Apollo sighed before adding dryly, "You were redeployed on Earth that day, Starbuck, opening a _Starbucks_ in Baikonur, if I recall correctly."

"And getting a medal from President Kuzmin, don't forget," Starbuck reminded him. "For my heroism and bravery . . . but mostly for keeping my mouth shut about that decontamination nightmare they put me through." Before he'd cut the ribbon for the new coffee house, Starbuck had a medal pinned on his chest by the Russian leader, something called the _Order of Zhukov._

"Of course not. How could I or anyone else forget? Especially after that vodka incident with Surkov, Orlov and Jess." He crossed his arms over his chest.

Starbuck winced in memory. The vodka incident had been a social gathering where he'd learned that shots of vodka were obligatory whenever toasts were made. It was bad manners to refuse a top up and even worse to not eventually offer a toast to your host. Before he knew it, he'd consumed at least a bottle of vodka, and had been convinced to try dancing the Kazatsky with Orlov's nephews. The rest was a blur . . .

"In any event," Apollo continued, "Dayton said he'd made commitments that he wasn't willing to walk away from. Maybe you haven't noticed, but the three of us haven't actually been on the _Endeavour_ at the same time since July."

No, he hadn't noticed. He had been too busy striking tasks off the list that Dayton had assigned to him. The _long_ list that Dayton had assigned to him. It was times like this that he realized he sometimes followed too readily when others led. "Then I guess a Command meeting _is_ overdue."

Apollo frowned. "Look, Starbuck, don't get me wrong here, I know that Dayton has good intentions . . ."

Starbuck waved a hand, cutting him off, and at the same time impelling him towards the landing bay. "Yeah, I hear you. I don't think any of us figured we'd get quite so embroiled in Earth's problems so quickly or so thoroughly."

"Exactly."

Initially, they had concentrated on helping with relief efforts in those areas destroyed or attacked by the Cylons, as well as those whose infrastructure had been damaged by the EMP unleashed on Earth when the _Ravager_ had exploded. Ama had, of course, insinuated herself quickly into the bureaucratic situation, drafting an alliance with other world leaders as the sole Council of Twelve representative. Meanwhile, Starbuck had taken a personal interest in seeing both Mason and the Russian, Borodin, brought to justice. Much to Starbuck's disbelief, Mason was still lingering in a cell awaiting tribunal . . . or _trial_, as they called it. After all, in comparison Colonial justice was swift and decisive, bringing the accused to tribunal within twenty-four centars of being charged. Ironically, justice was served far swifter in Russia, and about a secton after Colonel General Alexei Surkov assumed Borodin's old job, the former GRU director was found dead in his cell, victim to a lethal radioactive isotope that he had carelessly ingested. It wouldn't have been a pretty death, but after his early time in Kazakhstan, Starbuck found himself unmoved.

Maybe he'd been hanging out with Dayton too long.

Speaking of which, at the end of July an "unidentified" body had been found bobbing in the Hudson River, which Lauren Dayton had every reason to believe, after investigating the incident further, was Eckandar Shahhosseini. It had coincided with a few days that Dayton and his men had spent in New York, presumably mixing business with pleasure, as they visited Dickins' family and rubbernecked with bureauticians of every nationality at the United Nations Complex.

Starbuck truly didn't want to know.

"When's Dorado due back from Phobos?" Starbuck asked Apollo as they ascended the ladderwell towards the landing bay.

"That's another project that keeps extending itself," Apollo called down to him. "Coxcoxtli and Hummer are optimistic they can get one of those ships operational."

"A seven thousand yahren old battlecruiser? I take it that's a long-term plan?"

"Space does have a way of preserving things," Apollo replied. "Just think about the _Endeavour_."

"I was thinking about Dayton, actually," Starbuck returned wryly. "Or was that the asteroid whiskey?"

Apollo chuckled, exiting the hatch into the landing bay. "Uh, Bucko . . ."

"What?" Starbuck asked, following his friend's gaze when his feet hit the deck. The older woman walking towards him had short but elegant white hair, framing a face with high cheekbones. Her outfit was from Earth, and was both fitted and flattering. When she smiled at him, he just about fell over. It was Ama, and she had straight pearly teeth! Gone was the wild hair. Gone was the gapped-tooth smile. Gone was his sense of one unchanging force in his personal universe. "_Ama_?"

"Hello, Dear Heart," she replied, cackling in delight as warriors stood erect for inspection several metrons behind her, Lia and Luana among them. The sisters broke the line, obviously taken aback before Rooke barked a warning at them and they fell in again. Ama, for her part, did a slow, graceful pirouette for all to admire. "Do you think Chameleon will like the new me?"

"I . . . uh . . . well," Starbuck sputtered, before recovering from the shock. A few times he had seen her decked out, her wild hair tamed and restrained like a feral beast in a throw net. But just as he had grown comfortable with the transformation from Empyrean necromancer to elegant Councilwoman, she would smile that trademark grin of hers and the illusion would shatter. Not this time. "You, uh . . . you look great."

"You really do, Ama," Apollo said, much more graciously than his friend.

"Well, thank you both," she smiled again, lightly touching her hair. "Tell me, were you testing the Clavis this morning?"

"Then the energy surge didn't have anything to do with you?" Apollo guessed.

"Well, there's my answer. Obviously it wasn't explained away by your diagnostics," Ama said, her lips thinning. "_Blast!_" Then she muttered more quietly, "Why can't they let me be?"

"They? They _who_?" Apollo replied.

"Ama?" Starbuck said less insistently.

Ama let out an unladylike growl, turning her back on them both, her fingers interlocking behind her new coif. Microns dragged on as she anguished there alone, her form tense and angry, her manner unapproachable.

Feeling like he was about to poke an angry serpent, Starbuck took a step closer. Hesitantly, he reached out to her, touching the silky sleeve of her blouse. "Ama, we need your help here."

She turned her head to look at him, and something behind those grey eyes unnerved him. Then, as if knowing what he was thinking, she smiled reassuringly at him, covering his hand with her own.

"Better let me take a look so we can see exactly who the culprit is, Dear Heart," she said.

Apollo nodded, glancing at his line of warriors awaiting his displeasure.

"I'll handle inspection," Starbuck reassured him. "You and Ama go ahead and try to get to the bottom of what's going on with the Clavis. I'll catch up with you in the Control Centre."

"Thanks, buddy," Apollo replied, taking the Councilwoman by the arm and heading back to the core.

Starbuck strode over to his pilots, setting his features grimly.

"A drill, Starbuck?" Jolly asked, standing at the end of the line beside Rooke. "How about some warning next time?"

"You had the same warning that _I _did, Lieutenant," Starbuck replied.

"Stand alert! Eyes front!" Rooke barked, detecting something amiss in their strike captain's tone as Starbuck started to walk down the line of Colonial Warriors, appraising them.

Each warrior stood ramrod straight, an aura of uneasy expectation enveloping them. Lia didn't flinch when he looked her way, but Lu gave him a saucy wink before returning her focus to the Hybrid fighter behind him. Starbuck turned around and passed by them all again, this time more slowly, pausing before Jolly to pick a speck of errant lint from his tunic. Starbuck kept his features impassive as Jolly's eyebrows raised in surprise. The jovial lieutenant briefly met his eyes, unexpectedly seeing something there that made him abruptly return his gaze to the front in crisp military fashion. In the service it was known as "mong rolling down hill", and it could overcome even the most even-tempered and good-natured of officers. Finally, seeing that he had them on their toes, Starbuck walked down the line once again, coming to a stop before the group, one hand resting on his holster as he considered them all.

He grinned.

"Good work, everybody. In honour of not only your hard work and dedication these last couple sectars, but also Earth's Labour Day, the first round of drinks are on me in the OC. " He paused as a low murmur of appreciation for their strike captain rose in the ranks and they visibly relaxed. Starbuck held up a hand. "There's a catch; the last one of you to arrive there has to clean the colonel's boots . . ."

xxxxx

"Tell me your secrets," Ama murmured, placing her withered hands slightly above the glowing Clavis in the Control Centre. "Who seeks to manipulate you now?"

Apollo stood a pace behind her with Malus, watching the Empyrean necromancer close her eyes, her features relaxing into tranquillity. She seemed older, more fragile, since their experience two sectars ago. Ryan had mentioned that Iblis had shown her something that had shaken her faith, but being Ryan, the Earthman didn't seem too surprised by that. Starbuck, Luana and Lia had all tried to probe her about her experiences, the strike captain going as far as to ply her with both asteroid whiskey _and_ Empyrean ale in an effort to loosen her tongue, but the sagacious old woman had remained evasive, determined to shoulder her personal burdens alone, at least as far as Apollo knew. She had thrown herself into the role of Colonial envoy, representing the Council of the Twelve with a wisdom and dignity that almost surprised the colonel, so familiar was he with her sometimes backwards and abrasive Empyrean ways.

Ama frowned, taking a step back and putting a hand to her mouth. "Hold these, will you, Dear Heart?" she said, turning to drop something into Apollo's unfortunate hand. Then she resumed her position, probing the mysteries of the Clavis with her psionic powers.

Evidently, Ama's dental makeover was easily reversible. Apollo grimaced, regarding the warm, moist dental plates in his hand, the residue of victuals still clinging to them. He made a mental note to warn Starbuck of this latest ritual before setting them down atop the control station, wiping his hand distastefully on his uniform pants.

"Keep those safe, Apollo, they weren't cheap," Ama said, as though she had eyes in the back of her skull.

"Neither is my self-respect," Apollo retorted, not missing the playful smirk that now lit her face. It was as if she were reading his mind at the same time as she probed the Clavis. "What is it, Ama? What can you tell us?"

"Do tell us, Ama. I ran several diagnostics, but an ascertainable technological explanation evaded me," Malus said.

Ama sighed, dropping her hands and stepping back from the machine. She paused for a moment, looking at the entryway expectantly. Just as Apollo was about to prompt her once again, Starbuck walked in.

"Did I miss anything?" the strike captain asked.

"You might say that," Apollo replied with a glance at Ama's artificial teeth.

"Greetings, Starbuck," Malus said. "Is your _pet_ not with you?" There was a slight note of jealousy in the IL's tone.

"Hey, Mal," Starbuck replied, seemingly unaffected. "Shadow's in the doghouse."

"I see. But inevitably he _will_ be let out, and you will call him 'Good Boy' and rub his belly. Such is the life of your daggit, Starbuck." The IL's lights seemed to strobe for a moment. "I often wish I could trade places with Shadow."

"Mal, this really isn't the time or the place to take another pseudo-hormonal IL adventure into Hades Hole," Starbuck replied, blowing out a breath as if he was already mentally counting to ten.

"Haven't had your hug today, Malus?" Ama asked in amusement.

"He's just whining because we won't let him go down to Earth," Starbuck replied. "I keep telling him that Earthlings are a little Cyborg-shy right now, but he doesn't get it."

"Give him a hug, Starbuck." Ama grinned as the warrior glared at her. "I believe he feels that he's been replaced by a four-legged canine."

"Shadow is Lu's dog," Starbuck said, using the Earth word for daggit interchangeably with the Colonial Standard one.

"Then why does he follow you around incessantly?" Malus asked. "He's always nuzzling you and licking you . . . and you seem to enjoy it."

"Mal, we don't have time for this right now," Starbuck returned irritably, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Time is always precious when we are discussing _my_ feelings," Malus replied.

"Malus, didn't we discuss applying filters to your emotional program set? _Not_ in the Control Centre!" Apollo inserted sharply, reflecting briefly that his once orphaned friend had acquired one of the strangest extended families ever known to mankind. As soon as Interfleet Broadcasting got wind of this, they'd have a field day with the possibilities. "Well, Ama?"

"Well . . it's not Count Iblis," she replied. "I'm certain of that."

"Is it the parasitic entity returned from where you sent it?" Malus asked, back in form.

She shook her head, scowling. "It's a warning from the Beings of Light." She took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. "It's time to return to the Fleet."

"A warning?" Starbuck said. "That sounds sort of . . . _ominous_."

"Well, that might be reflective of my parting with them," Ama replied elusively, turning to scoop up her teeth, picking at some residue and flicking it onto the deck before popping them back into her mouth, her lips smacking noisily as she lubricated them with her tongue.

"Ama, are you telling us that you antagonized beings that have the power to cross dimensions, make ships and people disappear, and to bring dead men back to life?" Apollo asked in disbelief. "And you're only just mentioning it _now_?"

"Yes, I guess so." She smiled ever so slightly. "But they deserved it."

"Well, in _that_ case," Starbuck sighed, raking a hand through his hair as he studied the old woman. "Are you ever going to tell us what _really_ happened between you, Iblis and the rest of them?"

"Maybe one day . . . when I have it all figured out for myself. I'm afraid that right now I'm still too emotionally attached to the event to give an objective and possibly even accurate recount of it," the Councilwoman replied with a shrug. "Baltar pops in now and then, trying to persuade me that I am overreacting, but it's difficult at my age to suddenly doubt everything you once believed to be true." She took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around herself, stroking one arm up and down repeatedly in a consoling fashion. "Apparently, they have assigned him as my newest . . . _mentor_, which is rather ironic, don't you think, considering it was _I_ who put him on the path towards redemption. However, my disillusionment is too raw, too fresh right now for me to be swayed. Every time I even _think_ about trying to use my powers, I can feel both them and _him_ peering into my soul, tearing open wounds that I thought healed. I find I don't want any of them there anymore."

"Are you saying that they somehow connect with you telepathically when you use your psionic powers?" Malus asked.

"More viscerally than telepathically." Ama shivered.

"I am not sure I understand," Malus said.

"I'm sure that I don't. Did you get any of that?" Apollo asked his friend after a moment of reflective bemusement. Hopefully, some personal insight into Starbuck's godmother-in-law would clear up her inscrutable words.

"She said that maybe one day she'd tell us what happened," the strike captain replied, his mien conveying an unexpected understanding, empathy and patience with the Empyrean wise woman.

"Thanks for clearing that up," Apollo said a few microns later.

"Any time."

"Do you have any recommendations?" Apollo asked the necromancer.

"I'd get our people from Earth and Phobos back here as soon as possible and voluntarily prepare to return to the Fleet," Ama advised, "before the Clavis does it for you."

"How long do you think we have, Councilwoman Ama?" Malus asked.

She shook her head. "I don't know, Malus. Honestly. It could be they're trying to prevent us from interfering with something that's about to occur. Or perhaps now that we've finally helped lay the groundwork that will ensure a smooth transition into Earth's future, our work, at least for the present, is done."

"Can you find out?" Starbuck asked. "Probe some receptive celestial souls. Maybe Baltar's?"

Ama fixed a stare on him that would have had a lesser man diving for cover.

"Don't look at me like that," Starbuck told her. "The day is gone when I was afraid you'd turn me into a putrid. The way I understand it, you're more powerful now than ever before. I think you're afraid to use your powers right now, Ama. I don't know why, but . . ."

"You don't know what you ask of me, Son of my Heart," she said, glowering at him. "Honestly, you do not."

"Nothing that you wouldn't have given readily before now," Starbuck replied.

Apollo kept his mouth shut, leaving it between them.

"I will monitor the situation," Ama declared. "That is all."

"What exactly does that mean, Ama?" Starbuck demanded.

"That I won't subject myself to their scrutiny. I won't exercise. . ." She clamped her mouth shut.

Starbuck blew out a loud breath of frustration, taking a step towards her and grasping her upper arms, leaning down to look into her eyes. "What are you afraid of, Ama?"

"Losing myself," she whispered after a moment, bowing her head. "Letting myself be consumed by resentment . . . and hatred. Becoming like him. _Becoming_ him! Taking _his_ place."

"_Iblis_'? That could never happen," Starbuck told her, tipping her chin up. "There is too much good will, grace and integrity in you, Ama, for you to take Iblis' place. I don't know how you could even think such a thing."

She smiled at him, reaching up and lightly stroking his face. "Many would disagree with you, Starbuck."

He shrugged. "That's the story of my life. But the upshot is I'm usually right."

"Except for when you're very very wrong," she reminded him.

Starbuck sighed, pulling her to his chest, letting her arms enfold him naturally, as if they were mother and son, at least in destiny. "Once you told me to follow my instinct, Ama. Maybe you should do the same."

"I was baffling you with bovine mong, Starbuck," she murmured into his chest, the words muffled.

"No, you were right on the mark, lady," he said, stroking her freshly cut hair as if she were a child. "After all you've been through already, all you've survived, all you have to fear now is fear itself."

She raised her head, taking a step back, looking up at him in wonder.

As did Apollo.

"May I embrace you next, Starbuck?" Malus suddenly asked.

"_Filter_, Malus!" Apollo said sharply.

"Yes, Colonel," the IL replied meekly. "Apologies."

"Well, Ama?" Starbuck said.

"If I intervene, Starbuck, it may make it worse," she whispered, her eyes searching his as she grasped his hands. "If it had been up to them, I'd be powerless right now."

"They took your powers?"

"I didn't exactly abide by their rules," Ama admitted. "Count Iblis returned my powers to me just before he was exiled. It wasn't very popular with the Great Powers."

"Holy frack, Iblis did that? _Iblis_?" Starbuck asked, releasing Ama and looking over at Apollo briefly in amazement. He fixed his gaze back on the necromancer. "So you think they'll . . . punish you if you use your powers? Is that why you've been so hesitant to flex your usual Empyrean muscles?"

By the expression on her face, Starbuck was close, but not exactly correct.

"Or maybe she thinks they'll punish _us_?" Apollo said, feeling uneasy. "Is that it, Ama?"

"You're very perceptive, Apollo," she replied. "I _have_ pondered it. Mostly . . . at a time like this . . . I don't wish to anger them . . ."

"At a time like _what_?" Starbuck probed.

"Do you really think they'd punish us . . . or you?" Apollo said, his very nature rebelling against the idea.

"Apollo, I believe that if goodness can be found, even in one such as Iblis, then perhaps maliciousness can also be found in those considered to be largely altruistic," she replied. "In order for there to be a battle between good and evil, one must be willing to make war. And a war is not won through good intentions, honesty and goodwill. A long dead Earth leader once said that 'in wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies'."

Starbuck stood by silently, digesting her words.

"That makes a surprising amount of sense, Ama," Apollo said, still taken aback at the prospect. However, he was only hearing one side of the events, and it was a sketchy retelling at best.

Starbuck nodded slowly. "You get Dorado and the others back here from Phobos, Apollo. I'd better get down to Earth and tell Dayton what's going on."

"Using the telecom would be quicker, buddy."

"I have the feeling I'd better tell him this in person."

"Oh?"

Starbuck grimaced.

Apollo looked at him, a new understanding dawning. "He's . . . not coming back. Is he?"

Starbuck hesitated, seeming to waffle in indecision. "He never said that, not in so many words, anyhow. I just can't help but think that after finally getting home, being reunited with his daughters and making such an impact on Earth's technological and bureaucratic future that just maybe he'll be reluctant to voluntarily walk away from all of that again."

"I see what you mean," Apollo said, reaching forward and clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"As do I," Ama said, lightly touching his arm. "I'll come with you, Starbuck. Someone had better be there to keep you out of trouble."

Although Starbuck and Dayton had had a rough start, theirs had been a relationship built on mutual respect, honour and deep camaraderie. More than one person had recognized the uncanny similarities in their natures, both believing in their own way that loyalty and allegiance took precedence over all else. Over the sectars, theirs had grown into a father-son relationship, possibly superseding the one Starbuck had with Chameleon. But then, even Chameleon had once remarked that Dayton seemed to challenge Starbuck to excel, helping to mould his character in a way that the old conman didn't think he was personally capable of.

"Maybe we should bring Cassie along," Starbuck suddenly inserted.

"A med tech seems like a good idea, especially at one of Dayton's parties," Apollo returned, squeezing his friend's shoulder once again before releasing him. Leave it to Starbuck to think of his former lover's situation if Dayton didn't return to the ship. Cassiopeia would be devastated and they both knew it. "And Starbuck, whatever you do, don't take too long. If Ama's right . . ." He broke off his words, not wanting to think about leaving his friend behind, especially with his wife still on board the _Endeavour_. Speaking of which . . . "What about Lu?"

"All the more incentive for me to get back here on time," Starbuck replied.

"You're sure?" Apollo checked.

"I'm sure," Starbuck replied, taking Ama's arm and heading for the core.

"She'd kill you if she knew!" Apollo shouted after him.

"Then don't tell her!" Starbuck replied, looking back.

"Don't tell her?" Apollo repeated incredulously, moving to the corridor and shouting after them. "Right! I'll just gag the crew and suspend all activity on the _Endeavour _until you work up the nerve to talk to your wife, Starbuck!"

"Well . . . when you put it like that," Starbuck muttered, a shadow of a grin crossing his face. "Okay, I'll mention it if I see her."

Apollo raised a hand, pointing to the core. "You do that. Move it, Captain. And make sure that damned daggit is contained before you go."

"Aye, sir!"

xxxxxx

"If you think for one micron that I'm going to let you go down there without me on the off chance that you might not come back, you're out of your mushie-munching mind," Luana told her husband, one hand on her laser and the other on his flight jacket, curled into a loose fist.

"Mushie-munching mind, huh?" Starbuck looked down at her laser pointedly, before meeting her eyes again. He smiled at her. "You planning on using that, Lu?"

"Don't tempt me," she replied, glancing back at Ama, Cassie and Dietra. Word had spread like wildfire around the ship that they were preparing to use the Clavis to head back to the Fleet. "You'd better start talking fast, Flyboy."

"I'm sure that you've heard already, it's the Clavis, Luana," Ama said to her goddaughter. "It's surged again. I believe it's going to self-generate once more, taking us back to Fleet. We have to get everybody back aboard who's coming aboard. There may not be much time."

"What about the teams on Mars and Phobos?" asked Cassie, only just arriving a centon before. The med tech was wearing a floral printed Earth-style dress that swished and moved with her motions, accentuating her curvy figure. It had made every male head in the launch bay turn when she'd climbed through the hatch.

"Recalled," replied Starbuck. "They're scheduled to lift off from Mars roughly twenty centons from now. When they rendezvous with the Phobos crew, they'll leave Mars space within sixty centons. I just hope the Dayton is here when they get back."

"Not to mention the _Endeavour_," Dietra added worriedly.

Lu released Starbuck, her gaze swinging from one face to the next until she realized what they were alluding to. "Are you saying that Dayton's not coming back?"

"I don't know," Cassiopeia admitted. "I've broached it with him a few times, but each time he evades the question. I think he's really struggling with it all." She sighed, looking over at Dietra. "What about Paddy?"

Dietra sniffed softly. "Paddy will go wherever Commander Dayton does. When Mark makes up his mind, so will Paddy."

"What about you, Dietra?" Cassie asked.

"My place is with the Fleet," Dietra said quietly. "Has been since the Holocaust."

"Does Paddy-Ryan know that, Child?" Ama asked.

Dietra nodded. "He knows. We've discussed it at length. He's surprisingly forthcoming about what he wants and needs, more so now that he's been reunited with family and friends on Earth. He expects the same of me." She shrugged. "He told me I deserve more than an old reprobate whose first allegiances are to his friends, his liquor and his family, probably in that order. His words, not mine. Anyhow, after I gave it some thought, I realized he's right."

Cassie nodded, reaching out and touching the other woman's arm empathetically. It was clear the med tech had also placed herself somewhere down the line in Dayton's list of priorities, but it just wasn't as important to her. Her spirit was a generous one and she didn't harbour jealousies over not being first in her man's life. Being that her last three serious relationships had been with officers in the Colonial Service, it wasn't surprising.

Starbuck cleared his throat, uncomfortable at being caught up in the candid female conversation. "You'd rather stay, Dee?"

"If you're saying that there's a chance the _Endeavour_ might leave without us," Dietra replied, "well, then yes."

"It's possible it could come to that," Starbuck conceded, earning himself an indignant glare from Lu. "Why do you think I'm taking Ama?"

Lu visibly relaxed. "A wild Empyrean ride home, just in case," she murmured. "Always have an exit."

"That's right," Starbuck agreed.

Ama shook her head adamantly. "Starbuck, I told you, I may not be up for that kind of adventure right now. I'm a little out of practice, in fact."

He raised his hands in a conciliatory fashion. "It might not even be necessary if we get our astrums aboard the shuttle and get there and back in time. I've already arranged for a helicopter to meet us at the Air Force base."

"I'll co-pilot," Luana said, brushing past her husband and stepping aboard.

"Lu, you know how Dayton feels about you and I flying together," Starbuck told her back, following her aboard. "Remember what happened the last time . . ."

"And the time before _that_," Ama pointed out, also boarding. Cassiopeia followed.

"Commander Dayton's not here to complain about it, and I think I can handle the strike captain if he starts protesting _too_ vociferously," Lu said over her shoulder, a teasing glimmer in her eyes. "Besides, if there's any chance that you're going to be left behind on Earth, _Innamorato_, then _I'm_ going to be with you. You can take that and post it on the main page of your fan club website just to make it official."

Cassie and Ama laughed in amusement behind him. Starbuck blew out a breath, following Lu to the flight deck, calling back, "Strap yourselves in, ladies. Looks like it's going to be a bumpy ride."

"Maybe for you, Dear Heart," Ama returned with her trademark cackle. "Maybe for you."

xxxxx

"You can't just . . . _leave_!" Grae Ryan raved, fists clenched, as he and Carter stood suited up, facing Dorado, Hummer and Coxcoxtli. "We've come so far! And there's still so much we can do here!" He waved a hand, encompassing the flight deck of the battlecruiser they had been working to restart, as well as the view of the Phobos space dock beyond it. Dozens of WASA technicians in spacesuits were still hard at work, crawling all over the hull and the dock, unaware that the Colonials had been recalled. "We can't do it _without_ you guys! It would set us back decades!"

"I'm just following orders, Grae," Dorado told Paddy Ryan's son. "If we don't rendezvous with the Mars crew _now_, we're going to miss our ride home."

"Home?" Grae asked incredulously. "Aren't you the guy who was telling me just the other night that home was a smouldering hunk of rock called Caprica light years away in both distance _and_ time, where you once had a family, not to mention no cybernetic body parts!"

"I think that was mentioning it, Grae," Carter pointed out. "Real subtle, pal."

"This isn't about _home,_ it's about _duty_," Dorado replied, slowing heading aft in the low-gravity environment. Although minimal in strength, the portable grav-generator attached to the underside of the ship's hull at least kept them from floating helplessly about. "We've been recalled. You know. Orders?"

"Well, what about your duty to _us_?" Grae demanded, following. Carter said something, but the more effusive Ryan stormed over his words. "You know how much we need your Colonial know-how! We might as well be pissing in zero gravity as trying to get this ship or base operational if you pull out now!"

"Slow down!" Dorado turned on him, putting his hands up to prevent the other from colliding with him. They ended up in a deranged dance as momentum drove them in a half circle. "My languaphone is rendering felgercarb about drowning in urinary incontinence, and something about interrupted . . ."

Ryan couldn't help but grin, his glance darting over Dorado's shoulder briefly before returning to the captain. "Sounds about right, actually."

Dorado shook his head in frustration and disgust, turning again, this time heading down a ladderwell.

"We need you, Dorado!" Ryan continued following. "We've had a tight team since we arrived back in July! Just look at what we've accomplished between our manpower and your technological prowess. We have power restored to a third of the base, we've come within a hair's breadth of figuring out how to restore gravity and environment, this battlecruiser might actually be operational, then there's that sealed sanctum that Hummer thinks has to do with celestial travel of some sort. Well, newsflash, they found an inset symbol for the All Seeing Eye identical to the one on Mars there! Didn't you say that you have Starbuck's talisman? It might open it! These Kobollians were absolutely brilliant and we all have a chance to tap into their knowledge, unearthing long-forgotten technology that even your people lost along the way!"

It had surprised Dorado the day that Starbuck had pressed his talisman and good luck charm into the captain's hand, telling him almost jokingly that where he was going, he was more likely to need it. Starbuck wasn't exactly known for being superstitious, and Dorado had detected a deeper concern and seriousness behind the lightness of his friend's words. The old war jock was getting soft around his edges.

Dorado stepped off the ladder, holding up his hands helplessly, still preceding Ryan as he paced through the corridors of the Kobollian vessel, as though he was trudging through water in his anti-grav boots. As much as he hated to abandon the most fascinating project he'd ever been assigned to, his superior officer had just given him orders to ship out. His hands were tied. He sighed, slowing his pace, letting the still ranting Ryan catch up to him. Hummer, Coxcoxtli and Carter were following more slowly, in view, but also in conversation, obviously on another channel. He stopped to wait for them.

"C'mon, Dorado, tell me this place isn't the culmination of your hopes and dreams! Your goddamn _El Dorado_, to coin a phrase," Ryan continued. "This is a scientist's paradise! An engineering Nirvana! How can you even _think_ about tearing yourself away?"

"You following me around raving incessantly makes it easier," Dorado replied, letting out another breath. He'd had to fight Apollo for this assignment, but the colonel had conceded the early stages of the mission, thinking he'd get his chance eventually. Evidently, he'd been wrong.

"Wait up!" Hummer switched to their channel as the three men closed the distance between them.

Grae crossed his arms over his chest, turning, looking at Carter expectantly. The WASA pilot nodded briefly. "Well?"

Coxcoxtli cleared his throat, looking at the Colonial captain almost guiltily.

"What?" asked Dorado.

"Sir, we've decided to stay, Hummer and I," Coxcoxtli admitted. "We're both . . .uh, submitting our resignation to the Colonial Service."

"You're _what_?" Dorado growled. "There's a fracking war on! You can't just resign!"

"Last time I checked, we weren't under Military Law anymore, Captain. It's within our rights," Hummer informed him.

"Welcome aboard," Grae said with a grin, reaching out to shake both men's hands.

Dorado blew out a loud breath, glaring at Ryan. "Damn you, Ryan! You planned this."

"So sue me," Ryan shrugged. "This is the sweetest assignment that any of us will ever get the chance to take part in, including you, Dorado. I've come to know you pretty well over the last six weeks, and I have the idea the last time you did anything selfish for yourself, you were prepubescent. There's more to life than duty and following orders, Dorado."

It sounded like it was right out of the Book of Starbuck, and it struck a nerve with the captain.

"The work we do here now just might pave the way for an easier transition for both your people and our people in the future, when the _Galactica_ and the Fleet finally pull up outside," Ryan continued. "It might even save lives or possibly the whole human race. It's crucial that people who know the technology and some of the history are here to lead the rest of us in the research, development and rebuilding. We _need_ you. All of you." Grae paused. "What do you say, Dorado?"

xxxxx

Even though Starbuck had been there a few times by now, he still paused at the crisply painted white gate to admire the Dayton family house in Chicago, which had at one time belonged to the _Endeavour _commander's parents. Ironically, it was a two level "Colonial" style house, built from dark red brick, nestled amongst large trees, offering the generous lushly landscaped lot natural shade from the warm glow of the evening sun. The house that Dayton was raised in was more than a centi-yahren old, and Starbuck couldn't help but smile as he looked up at the rotted and meagre remains of a tree fort that a young Mark Dayton had worked on with his grandfather. He could almost hear the familiar timbre of Dayton's voice telling him about how he had insisted they build an orbiter instead of a tree house, the passion for space exploration having already taken root.

"Shall we?" Ama asked, lightly touching his elbow.

"Right," Starbuck agreed, pushing open the gate, and letting the three women precede him as a row of white and purple flowers ushered them up towards the front door. Cassie paused to look at him in indecision. They could already hear voices and detect delicious smells coming from the backyard, where the barbeque would be in full swing.

"Captain, should I wait or return, sir?" the young soldier that the military had sent asked, standing beside the large sedan that had delivered them from the heliport. Before that, a helicopter had transported them from Scott Air Force Base where they had left their shuttle.

"Seems to me you'd better join the party until we're ready to go, Sam, unless you have somewhere better to be. I'm sure there's a cool one with your name on it," Starbuck replied, waving a hand towards the festivities to encourage the young man.

Sam smiled, closing the door to the vehicle and eagerly joining them. "I'm technically on duty, Captain." He tipped back his head, sniffing the air deeply. "But whatever they're barbequing sure smells good."

"Cold beer and barbeque is a Dayton speciality," Cassiopeia added, now also equipped with a languaphone, putting a hand on Starbuck's arm, holding him back for the moment. "The more the merrier, Sam. You three go ahead. I just need to talk to Starbuck for a moment."

"Thank you, Miss," the soldier replied, with a bow and tip of the cap, joining Ama and Luana as they stepped off the cobblestone pathway to head towards to the side of the house.

"Starbuck . . ." Cassie began, and then paused as they stood side by side. She drew in a deep breath of the floral scented air, glancing up at the grand old house. "You know he thinks the world of you, don't you?"

"It works both ways, Cass," he replied, following her gaze. If Dayton opted to remain on Earth, he had the feeling that Cassie would stay with him, not that she had committed one way or the other, at least out loud. This might be the last time he saw either of them. At times like this, women, he had realized, had the need to make some kind of dramatic closing statement to keep in their mental book of memories.

"Thank you."

"For what?" he asked.

"For bringing Mark Dayton into my life."

He turned towards her, reflecting that while he may have physically delivered the Earth astronauts to the Fleet, the blossoming romance had had very little to do with him. "He's lucky to have you, Cass. You know that, don't you?"

She stepped forward into his embrace, kissing him lightly on the cheek and smiling up at him. "There were times when I thought . . ."

"Hey, hey, hey!" a voice called coming around from the backyard. "What's going on here?" Dayton demanded teasingly, as he came out casually dressed in jeans and a light cotton shirt, wearing an apron emblazoned _Kiss The Cook_. With his skin browned by the sun, and his grey eyes sparkling in merriment, he had never looked better. "Listen, _Vanilla Bean Vaquero_, half of America is drooling over you, not to mention most of the rest of the world! At least leave my Cassiopeia alone."

Cassie seemed to glow with joy when he said "my Cassiopeia", and promptly followed the instructions of the apron. Starbuck could picture the two of them living here in this picturesque house in Chicago, surrounded by golden-haired kids, all taking after Cassie. What had Ryan called it? The American Dream?

"You know me, Dayton, if I don't constantly have a beautiful woman adoring me, I start to break down on an emotional—not to mention molecular—level," Starbuck quipped as he watched the two embrace.

Dayton chuckled before turning his attention solely on his lady. "Hello, Beautiful. I thought you couldn't make it. I'm glad you were able to get away. Lauren's here already, and Jess is on her way with Yvonne. My sister, too. They'll be happy to see you." Dayton, for his part, had done all he could to ease his lady's transition into his family, but had largely found that Cassie had a way with people that endeared her to them quickly.

His daughters had been both gracious and welcoming of Cassiopeia, despite the fact that Dayton's legal wife was still alive, although suffering an advanced stage of a degenerative brain condition called Alzheimer's disease. Her disease had stolen any chance of them resuming any kind of meaningful relationship. In fact, on previous encounters she refused to believe that he was her husband, come back from the dead. On one occasion, she'd mistaken Starbuck for him, apparently seeing something in the Colonial warrior that reminded her of a young Mark Dayton. It had been traumatic to the husband who had held her dear in his thoughts for thirty yahrens, hanging on almost desperately to her memory just to survive. Dayton had admitted one night to Starbuck, that he wondered if somewhere deep inside the fragile, bewildered old woman was some enduring fragment of _his _Yvonne or if Alzheimer's had completely destroyed any vestiges of the woman he had once married.

"Yvonne's coming?" Cassie asked. "I didn't think . . ."

Dayton shrugged. "As I told you, she doesn't know me, but she does know the girls." Only he referred to his middle-aged daughters as 'girls'. "Jess thought it would be good for her to get out of the home for a few hours. Yvonne livens up a bit in the evening; it has something to do with her medication, or so I'm told."

Cassie nodded, slipping an arm around the _Endeavour_ commander.

"Come around back," Dayton told Starbuck. "The party's in full swing. The guys all made it, and a few more folks are still going to show up. Also, I have a local stout I want to introduce you to, Starbuck. I think the two of you will get along fine."

"I hate to say it, Dayton, but we don't have time. The Clavis pulsed again. Ama thinks it's a warning from the Ship of Lights to get our astrums back in gear and head back to the Fleet. She's worried if we don't set off on our own initiative, that they'll do it for us."

The joy and animation slipped from Dayton's face like a curtain dropping.

"Damn," he muttered, looking from Starbuck to Cassie, before turning to feast his eyes on the home of his childhood. It was all written there plainly on his face: indecision, regret, disappointment and concern. He looked more torn than Starbuck had ever seen him. "Just . . . _damn_. The teams on Phobos and Mars . . ."

"Already recalled," Starbuck cut in, while Dayton nodded slowly. Suddenly, he looked as lost as his demented wife. "We need to talk, Old Man."

Cass extracted herself from Dayton's embrace. "I'll leave you two alone."

"Cassiopeia . . ." Dayton started, a hand held out to the woman walking away from him.

"Just tell me what you decide, Mark," she said looking back at him, pushing a tendril of blonde hair from her face. "This is your decision."

xxxxx

"_I know on the surface it seems like disobeying orders, Apollo, but we can't just abandon this project. It's too important. Sagan's sake, Hummer thinks that the sanctum we discovered here on Phobos is some kind of control centre for a portal that the ancient Kobollians used to explore the universe, utilizing pyramids as star gates_," Dorado urged the _colonel__._ "_Remember the tomb of the ninth Lord you discovered on Kobol? And how Count Iblis appeared in the Mars pyramid, escaping from wherever the Beings of Light exiled him to? They might be linked_."

"Are you suggesting that along the way to figuring it out, we try and free more evil demons that the Beings of Light have banished from their dominion?" Apollo countered over the comm to Phobos, recalling that Dorado was currently in possession of Starbuck's Empyrean talisman. "I don't know about you . . ."

"_Okay_," Dorado conceded, "_maybe that was a bad example. But you know what I mean_. _Starbuck once told me that the Beings of Light said that we are as they once were, or words to that effect. What if they're the ancient Kobollians? What if their secrets are just sitting here, waiting for us to discover them_? _What if evolving to their level has more to do with technological prowess than spiritual growth_?"

"That's a lot of 'what ifs', Dorado," Apollo replied, tempering his personal feelings on that. Dabbling in an arena where mankind could travel through space and time, and Empyrean necromancers had metaphysical powers that transcended the impossible; his once firmly entrenched belief system was being put to the test. What if the Beings of Light _were_ actually a highly advanced civilization with their own agenda, rather than messengers or agents of the Almighty? Early Earthmen had once thought that the far advanced Kobollians were themselves, in actuality, gods. Was there a parallel to be recognized if he really stood back and looked at it objectively? _Could_ he look at it objectively? Did spirituality necessarily have to be embodied in some kind of a tangible, recognizable form? Or was it just more comfortable that way? And what about Starbuck's reports that Baltar had become a Being of Light? While it fitted the prescribed Kobollian doctrine, was it possible that evolving beyond this dimension didn't necessarily reflect religious beliefs or aspirations held to be true for millennia? If so, what _were_ the criteria? "Besides, if Ama thinks the Beings of Light want us to move on, then it follows that they don't want us making those kinds of discoveries. There might be a good reason for that."

"_I can hardly believe you just said that, Apollo_," Dorado replied.

"I'm just saying that staying behind might be putting all of you at risk, Dorado," Apollo explained.

"_Are you actually trying to tell a warrior that by following through on his mission, he might be in danger_?" Dorado replied. "_Really_?"

"If you recall the story, when we penetrated the tomb of the ninth Lord and my father started to translate the ancient script, soon afterwards the city and any Kobollian secrets were buried under the onslaught of a Cylon attack," Apollo reminded him. Were the Beings of Light trying to hide secrets from them even then? Were they easing the way to insinuating themselves into the Colonials' lives as miraculous godlike creatures when they later resurrected Apollo and provided the course to Earth? Or was the Cylon attack on Kobol simply the coincidental result of Lucifer trying to eliminate a bothersome Baltar? Regardless, Apollo's colleague was right; as warriors they dealt in danger every day. "Is _everybody_ staying? Have you given them the option?"

"_Of course_," Dorado told him. "_Our Mars contingent had reached the same conclusion as those here. Those that want to head back have already launched in Hybrids since this might be time sensitive. I'm forwarding you the roster now_ _so you know who to expect_."

"You know, there's a big part of me that envies you, Dorado," Apollo admitted.

Dorado smiled. Commander Adama's son envied a man who had been to Hades Hole and back, and had the cybernetic parts to show for his trouble. "_Well, there's something I never thought I'd hear_."

"Good luck."

"_To you as well. And tell Starbuck that I'm unsubscribing from his fan club. Six hundred and sixty-six messages a day is overkill, even by Starbuckian standards_."

"Six hundred and . . ." Apollo mused aloud. Why did that number seem significant?

"_Dorado out_."

The line went dead.


	67. Chapter Twenty Six: Part Two

Despite his homecoming being far from what Mark Dayton had once dreamed—the Cylons on Earth's doorstep; cities laid waste and millions dead; discovering he'd been labelled a traitor; finding out his wife had Alzheimer's Disease; being told one of his sisters had died of breast cancer; his other sister saying Yvonne had miscarried a baby son after Mark had gone missing; realizing the ancient astronauts that von Däniken and others had theorized about were in fact an elite, secretive group known as the _Anakim_, with a master plan of dominating the world both financially and politically; ferreting out that _Randy's Steakhouse Restaurant_ in Frisco, Texas had been closed for nigh on twenty years—two months into his new life, he had to say that he was _fairly_ content. Overall, they had crippled, if not decapitated the old _Anakim_conspiracy, and had put a serious dent in rebuilding crumbling infrastructures, as well as easing worldwide political tensions, and instilling the idea of the Colonials as an ally, albeit light years away. On a personal note, while he'd been devastated that Yvonne didn't know him and that he'd lost a child he'd never even realized they'd conceived, he'd been thrilled to get to know his daughters all over again, and couldn't be prouder of the women they'd grown to be. In general, life was good. The question was did he want that to change? As to the answer, well he'd known for some time now.

He sighed, perching himself on the corner of the desk in his father's study, watching Starbuck stand in front of the dark mahogany bookshelf, picking up and examining old antiquities that Dayton's father had collected over a lifetime. Amongst them were Roman and Greek coins, a small clay _lingam_ from Chola period India, pre-Columbian figurines from Guatemala, an Egyptian _ushabti_, a tablet from ancient Ur, and a tattered old flag, ripped and faded, that an ancestor had carried at Gettysburg.

The younger man seemed to be waiting patiently for him to say something, which admittedly unsettled the old NASA astronaut. It was as if the kid already knew what was coming or that he'd known it all along. He wondered if Starbuck was finding a way to delay the inevitable words, finding their fateful parting to be as difficult as Dayton did. It was one of those times that he just couldn't read Starbuck, unable to see past his own turbulent emotions.

"I never meant for it to happen this way," Dayton blurted out. Hadn't Cain inferred more than once that it might be selfish motivation that drove Dayton's ambitions of command? At the time it had seemed like so much malarkey, but all that had changed once he'd rediscovered his daughters' love and had rebuilt his reputation and standing on Earth. "But the situation was what it was, and we dealt with it as we found it. I'm certain Adama will understand."

Starbuck turned around, holding a Castello wooden pipe that had once belonged to Great-Grandfather Dayton. His fingers caressed the smooth old wood, his attention seemingly fixed on the fine Italian craftsmanship. It had been a couple weeks back when he had actually smoked the pipe, he and Dayton sitting alone on the back veranda on a starlit night, puffing away in companionable silence. It was one of the rare times that Dayton indulged, finding it more of a social ritual befitting an occasion than any kind of habit. Starbuck nodded briefly, before lifting his gaze to meet Dayton's eye.

"He'll understand," the younger man agreed, his gaze sweeping the room once again. "If any of us were given the option to go back to _our_ lives before the Destruction . . . I guess that most of us would."

"Would you?" Dayton asked him, suddenly doubting just that.

Starbuck smiled, dropping his chin for a moment, his thumb stroking the back of a chestnut brown leather armchair. "No," he said softly.

"Why not?"

"I was a . . ." He shrugged. "I guess you could say I was a bit self-absorbed back then."

Dayton chuckled. "So what's changed, Cappuccino Cowpoke?"

Starbuck laughed aloud at the comment, recognizing the jest for what it was. He took a moment before answering, and Dayton waited patiently. A reflective Starbuck was a rarity.

"I have a family now, Dayton. Maybe it's not the classic Colonial family, and more the kind that they'd want to feature for the comedy centar on Interfleet Broadcasting, but all the same, it's mine."

"Take care of them, kid. You're right; there's nothing so precious as family, whether they're blood . . . or honorary members." His gaze drifted to the window as he heard the loud ring of Ryan's laughter out back. He adjusted the shutters, letting rays of sunlight beam into the room.

"Speaking of which . . . I'm going to miss having you around, Old Man."

When Dayton looked back, Starbuck's eyes were startlingly bright, like two sunlit pools of aquamarine amidst this gentleman's den of dark wood and leather.

"Take care of Cassiopeia," Starbuck rambled, covering his labile emotions with his effusive nature. "And don't let Lauren make you too crazy. Underneath all that risk taking, she has a surprising amount of common sense, and remember that Jess keeps tabs on her constantly. Actually, Jess is the one you should worry about. She inherited all the responsibility genes in the family, taking care of every living soul within arm's reach, and never putting herself first. She's just like you, Old Man. Watch her." He took a step closer, hand outreached

Somehow over the last couple of months the warrior had situated himself into the "kid brother" role in Dayton's family. It had occurred naturally, and considering Starbuck's usual role as "God's gift to women", the transition was a blessed relief. Dayton gripped the young man's hand, holding his gaze for a moment before pulling the kid into a tight embrace, slapping him on the back. Despite his capabilities as a warrior and leader, Starbuck had a tendency to be somewhat emotionally immature with both abandonment and commitment issues, obviously as a result of being orphaned at a young age. There were some things that simply needed to be said aloud with him.

"If a man could choose his kin, well . . . despite all the crap I've given you since we've met, despite your _real_ father, I want you to know that I . . . well, I think of you like a son, Starbuck."

Starbuck drew in a deep steadying breath, belying his own feelings, as he pulled back from the embrace. "Thanks, Dayton. That means a lot." It was brief and concise, and probably all he could manage just now. He took a step towards the bookshelf, efficiently extracting himself, presumably to return the pipe to its usual place.

"I want you to keep that." Dayton nodded as Starbuck looked at him uncertainly. "Great-Grandfather would be proud to know who was smoking his pipe. And he'd be twice as pleased to know it wasn't just gathering dust in my Dad's den. I can still hear him telling my father that 'a pipe is meant to be smoked, not admired'."

A faint nod and a more typical smile of pleasure was Starbuck's unspoken reply, before he slipped the pipe into his flight jacket pocket. Then he added, "Well, since it would make Great-Grandfather Dayton happy . . ."

"It would _me_ happy, Smart Ass," Dayton laughed.

"Dad! Starbuck!" a voice hollered through the house. "Jess, Mom and Aunt Sally are here! Come and join the party!"

"You'll come and say goodbye, at least?" Dayton asked. "Maybe have a quick bite before you go?"

Starbuck glanced at his chrono, before nodding. "Wouldn't miss it."

xxxxx

"Six hundred and sixty-six," Apollo mused in the _Endeavour_'s Control Centre. "Dayton said that in their holy book that particular number was associated with Diabolis."

"Which is why you are surmising that Captain Dorado receiving six hundred and sixty-six messages from Starbuck's fan club is a foretelling of doom?" Malus asked. "It sounds more like a successful Internet social network to me. I apologize for stating the obvious, Colonel Apollo, but your theory is simply . . .illogical."

"You think I'm reading too much into it?" Apollo said, looking at the others. After his recent discussion with Dorado about the Beings of Light, maybe he _was_ overreacting. However, the truth was they really knew very little about them for certain, and that was due in part to vague and evasive answers upon questioning.

"Well, after everything we went through with Count Iblis, I can understand why. Still, everything is reading as nominal on both Barstow Station and the Phobos Space Dock," Jolly pointed out.

The reports scrolling across the board were encouraging. All the contaminated parts of the base had been vented to the surface; Cylon and Colonial decon technology had scrubbed virtually all of the released radion from the resealed and pressurized facility. Five of the base's crew had returned along with a Colonial contingent to both help in the repairs and study the ruins below. With power restored, the base would be ready for her full compliment within a couple of sectons.

As to Phobos, the discoveries had been nothing short of staggering. Of the thousands of rooms discovered inside the Martian moon, several had been found still sealed and intact. Others had been resealed and pressurized and were now housing the crews investigating both the moon and the ancient ships inside. From a distance, Malus had applied his cybernetic brain as well as the _Endeavour_'s mainframe to working out a plan for eventually stabilizing the moon's orbit, eliminating the stress on its ancient hull. The news crews from Earth that had been permitted inside to view the mysterious moon and artificial world had been largely speechless.

"I know, but I can't shake this feeling," Apollo said, reaching across the console, lightly touching Lia's hand. The abdicated Empyrean princess seemed to be deep inside her own little world, a tiny crease of concern between her eyes. At his touch, startled brown eyes looked at him a little guiltily. "Lia?"

"Sorry. I feel it too, Apollo," she said after a moment. "A general sense of unease and expectation, like just before lightning strikes . . ."

"A sense of unease, huh? I feel it too, but I thought it was the Vindaloo I had for lunch," Jolly ventured, rubbing his stomach as a loud gurgle punctuated his words.

Lia frowned at him. "I feel more like someone is leaning over my shoulder, trying to tell me something." She shivered involuntarily, wrapping her arms around herself, closing her eyes briefly. "Warning me."

"What's the latest on the Clavis?" Jolly asked.

"Currently pulsing at about thirty centon intervals, increasing at a rate of forty percent per centar," Apollo said, indicating the readout before him.

"Rounding it off to the nearest tenth," Malus inserted.

"That leaves us a little over two centars?" Jolly asked. "That's not much time, Skipper."

"If the current rate of acceleration does not deviate," Malus said, "the Clavis will self-initiate in two centars, twenty-three centons and four point six six six microns."

"Will the Mars and Phobos teams get back in time?" asked Lia.

"At full turbos, it'll be close," Apollo admitted, checking their identity beacons on the navigation console. The flashing dots were drawing ever closer to Earth. "They know to push it to the limit."

"What was it Baker said?" Lia asked. "Don't spare the equines."

"Something like that. It was a good thing Dorado sent them in the Hybrids," Jolly said.

"He doesn't leave much to chance," Apollo agreed. "That's what makes him such a good officer."

"So . . . what are _we_ leaving to chance?" Jolly inserted. "Count Iblis is supposed to be far away in another dimension. Can he hurt us from there?"

"Lia, tell me what you think," Apollo coaxed her.

"My gut is telling me what my head doesn't _want_ to believe," she replied.

"Go on."

"After what I've gleaned from Ama over the last couple sectars, I don't think Count Iblis is trying to hurt us . . . I think, well . . . I get the feeling that he's trying to _warn_ us."

"_What_?" Jolly blurted out. "Iblis, giving us a warning? What's next? The Imperious Leader inviting us to Cylon for mushies?"

"The way I understand it, the last thing Iblis did before being exiled was to restore Ama's powers," Lia added. "John and the rest weren't happy about it, Ama told me."

"Yes, she told us that before she left for Earth. Yet Ama has avoided using her restored powers," Apollo replied. "Starbuck said she hasn't done any of her usual Empyrean mystical tricks in some time. Coming up here and checking out the Clavis was apparently an exception."

"Ama did that? What did she say?" Lia asked.

"That the Beings of Light are behind the Clavis self-initiating this time around. They're manipulating us into leaving."

"Why?" Malus asked. "Surely, coming here and saving Earth from the Alliance was part of their design. To now force us to leave . . . I do not see the logic in this."

"She claimed to not know, Malus," Apollo said. "Starbuck tried to get her to find out more, but she was reluctant, to say the least. She said each time she used her powers that she connected with them on some level. Clearly, she was trying to avoid that."

"It sounds like the Beings of Light are trying to stifle her powers, while Count Iblis is trying to nurture them," Lia said.

"Too bizarre for words," Jolly inserted. "I wonder . . . do the Beings of Light fear Ama for some reason?"

"Because of her powers, inherited from Count Iblis?" Lia guessed.

"And we're in danger because of our association with her?" Apollo ventured.

"Ama is fiercely independent, even for a human, and her abilities are fearsome. The Great Powers cannot control her, thus they unite to oppress her, re-establishing the balance in the universe," Malus inserted, his oscillating blue 'eyes' freezing in place for a moment, his cranial lights dimming, indicating that huge amounts of processor function were being diverted. "Millennia ago her father was on a similar path. He was special: the One. The strength of his powers had never been witnessed before by those you refer to as the Beings of Light. It is rare when one such as he comes to be. A gift from the Almighty, a child to be awed and admired, instead he became the target of envy, contempt and fear. Even the most benevolent and sagacious of beings sought to control him. It was fate, the nature of the universe. Count Iblis was ostracized by his kind for not adhering to their rules and their ways. Shunned, he became the demon incarnate, embracing evil and creating chaos. Some say his journey into darkness was his destiny as the One, re-establishing a cosmic equilibrium that had been disturbed, much like our current day situation. And now that Count Iblis has been exiled, if the balance of the universe is not restored, the cycle may repeat itself with Ama."

The IL's optical sensors began oscillating again.

For a long moment, they looked at each other in unease, stunned at what they had just heard from the IL. Apollo shivered involuntarily at the sensation of a fateful shadow passing over him, watching as Lia once again wrapped her arms around herself and Jolly swallowed nervously.

"Mal?" Apollo said, watching familiar lights return to a more normal pattern. "Where the frack did _that_ come from?"

"Excuse me?" Malus replied. "Where did _what_ come from, Colonel?"

"You phased out, Mal," Apollo replied. "Self-diagnostic _now_."

"Yes, Colonel."

"I think that . . . _something_ just took control of Malus," Lia whispered, awaiting the IL's report. "But who? Or what?"

"I am afraid that I cannot answer that," the IL replied.

"It was rhetorical, Malus," Jolly said.

"I see. In any event, my internal log indicates I powered down temporarily. I can find no internal malfunction, but I am still trying to determine why."

"You didn't lose power, Mal," said Jolly. "All your lights were still flashing and we could hear your voice."

"I . . . I have no knowledge of that, Jolly, sadly," replied the Cylon. "My data banks contain no information on any activity during that time."

"Well, you were talking, but what you said you couldn't have known," said Apollo. He replayed the Control Centre flight recorder for Mal. The IL was stunned.

"I . . . I must find out who or what is manipulating me. I feel so . . . _used_."

"Good luck with that," Apollo said, before looking back at Jolly and Lia. "So who exactly _was_ speaking through Malus? Iblis?"

"The One, Malus called him," Jolly reminded them. "The one _what_?"

Apollo shook his head, not understanding.

"Whoever or whatever it was . . . was speaking _about_ Iblis," Jolly said after a pause, "not as though he or it_ was _Iblis."

"Well, who would care enough to warn us?" Lia pondered. After a moment: "Baltar?"

"_Baltar_?" Apollo and Jolly echoed in surprise. Even Mal turned his head at the mention of the one-time human traitor.

"Didn't Starbuck say that he appeared as a Being of Light and helped him?" Lia explained her rationale.

"Still . . . Baltar is one of them, which at this point somehow doesn't seem all that surprising. I don't know . . . with Baltar, I _never_ know. He has a habit of falling in with the wrong crowd," Apollo mentioned.

"That's the understatement of the centi-yahren," Lia added, scowling.

Apollo smiled slightly, looking thoughtful.

"You really think that the Beings of Light are the evil ones?" Jolly asked. "That's . . . that's awfully hard to believe, Skipper."

"Maybe evil is too strong a word, Jolly," Apollo amended.

"But is it really so hard to believe that they're in the wrong? Is it _really_?" Lia asked. "Jolly, didn't you say you have no recollection of the time you spent away from the _Galactica _when the Beings of Light first made contact with the Fleet, making an entire squadron vanish? A part of your life was erased and you aren't in the least bit disturbed by that?"

"Yes, well . . . I, uh . . ." By his reaction, it was the first time he'd considered it in that context. He frowned.

"Exactly," she finished.

"But they brought us back unharmed," replied the other. "They seemed to help us, not harm us." He looked at Apollo. "What do you think, Colonel?"

"Jolly, at this point I'm not sure _what_ to think anymore." He shook his head. "What's this balance in the universe that Malus talked about?" Apollo pondered. "Lords, but I wish my father were here. He'd know what to do . . . what to believe."

"Well, with that in mind, maybe all we can do right now is put our trust in faith," Lia inserted, her hand dropping down to ritualistically stroke her Empyrean talisman which rested on top of her tunic.

"May I?" Apollo asked, holding out a hand.

Idly, Lia nodded, slipping the leather band over her head and handing him the silver amulet. Apollo frowned, surprised at the warmth of what should be cool silver. There seemed to be a strange energy to the talisman that he couldn't define, a sensation in his fingers that was unfamiliar to him. It was almost as though it was humming silently in his hand . . . but that didn't make any sense.

"I'm all for faith, but usually I like to back it up with some tactical planning and firepower," Jolly inserted. "A couple of Viper squadrons wouldn't be amiss."

"I'm with you on that, Jolly," Apollo agreed, holding the talisman up before him, starring into the elongated eye that Earthmen referred to as the Eye of Horus and Empyreans revered as their sacred talisman.

Since first seeing it, the amulet had put him in mind of the Seal of Kobol that his father and even Baltar had once worn, gaining them access to the tomb of Kobol's ninth lord. As with the Empyrean talisman, in the depths of the pyramid on Kobol, Baltar had presumed the amulet gave Adama some kind of power that the former traitor obviously didn't possess. But other than those somewhat rusty powers of telekinesis that he had once inadvertently witnessed, Apollo had never been aware of his father having any kind of supernatural powers, certainly nothing akin to Ama's. Did Adama possess a raw, undeveloped ability that had never fulfilled its potential? Why had Apollo's father abandoned those particular studies at the Academy, and had those studies ever progressed beyond him bending cutlery and moving small objects? Upon reflection, Adama's statement that Ila had "made me stop the practice" seemed somehow unconvincing. Did Baltar know something that Apollo didn't? Was _that_ what the traitor had referred to at Kobol?

"Apollo?" Lia asked.

"It has a kind of . . . vitality, doesn't it?" Apollo asked, picking the amulet up this time by the leather thong, watching it begin a slow spin, independent of any movement on his part. "I wasn't expecting it to be warm."

"I've always interpreted that as a warning. A foretelling of danger," Lia told him. "Many people can't detect its spiritual energy. It speaks well of you."

"Spiritual energy," Apollo repeated, the semblance of an idea coming into his head. It was more than a long shot, it was completely crazy . . . " Jolly's right. We need something more than faith. We need someone on the inside."

"Come again?" Jolly said. "Someone on the _inside_?"

"On the inside of _what_, Colonel?" Malus asked.

Apollo smiled enigmatically, watching the talisman begin to slow its spin, then stop, before it slowly began to spin back the other way. "If there was only some way I could call in a favour . . ."

"From whom?" Lia asked.

Apollo sighed. "From the one best situated to tell us what's happening. I wonder where his loyalties lie now."

"You don't mean . . ." Jolly gagged.

The colonel nodded.

"Baltar."

xxxxx

Mark Dayton walked out into the dappled sun of the warm September evening, pausing on the porch and taking a big lungful of suburban Chicago air, Starbuck at his side. All around him was laughter, sunshine and the sizzle and luscious scent of barbeque, making a man wonder if life could get any better than this. As he looked about, he wondered which direction to take as he joined the casually assembled group of family and friends that had congregated in his backyard. Who did he tell first that he was electing to stay on Earth instead of continuing on with the Colonial Fleet: his daughters, his demented wife, his lover, or everybody present at one fell swoop, getting it out in the open and mitigating any individual reaction that might overshadow the rest. He reached into an overflowing cooler on the table, hefting first one cold beer, then a second.

"You'd better tell Cassie," Starbuck said quietly, taking the proffered bottle. He opened it, and pointed with it towards her, subtly but effectively steering Dayton towards the top-notch med tech.

Dayton couldn't help but smile as Starbuck summed it up so succinctly, putting to rest any lingering doubts about etiquette. His daughters would always be his daughters; his wife really wouldn't be impacted whatsoever; however, his lover . . .

"When the hell did _you_ get so wise about women, _Drip Grind_?" he asked his young friend as they clinked bottles. "_You_?" he said again, pointedly, taking a swig, then finally: "_You_!"

"I'm far from wise, Dayton," Starbuck admitted with a laugh. "I'm just a matrimonial survivor who picked up a tip or two along the way. Someone once told me that marriage is hard work. But that in the long run, it's worth all of the effort you put into it."

"_I_ told you that back on Planet 'P', _Barista Buckaroo_."

"Seems like a long time ago. Doesn't it?"

"It sure does."

Cassiopeia looked radiant, the evening sun shining off her golden hair, making her look like an angel, as she shared a smile and a few words with Bruce Johnson and his father, Frank. Since coming planetside, Dayton had spent a few evenings with Frank Johnson, sorting through a shipload of emotional baggage for both of them and re-establishing an old friendship that had once centred around the university relationship between Marilyn and Mark, two old university classmates.

Dayton and his men had also had the opportunity to look up Lynn Bond and Benjamin Zuskin's families. The book had to be closed on the two _Endeavour_ crewmembers that hadn't made it home. In Zuskin's case, they had opted to tell his family that he'd been killed on the pirate asteroid, rather than tell them that he'd escaped and had eventually lost his mind in Proteus Prison, becoming known as the Silent One.

Cassiopeia looked over at them, arching her fine eyebrows and looking for some indication from Dayton as she took a sip of red wine. He smiled at her, crooking a finger and beckoning her towards him. She nodded, turning her attention back to the Johnsons for a few more minutes before making her excuses and making her way over.

"Are those sirloin burgers?" Starbuck asked, lifting his chin as the sumptuous aroma wafted towards them across the yard in a wispy trail of smoke.

"And country ribs with my Grandma's famous home-made barbeque sauce."

"Sagan's sake, that smells good!"

"Only the best, kid," Dayton replied, giving him a slap on the back and a push off in that direction where Porter was now manning the brick barbeque, flipping burgers, grilling vegetables and tending steak and ribs. Dickins and Baker were standing there, plates in hand, by this time probably on their second helpings. For the first time in years, Dickins was filling out, looking loads healthier and less like a muscular skeleton subsisting on koivee root and Asteroid Whiskey, probably due to Anna's unwavering attention, support and never-ending understanding and patience since they'd been reunited.

"It's good to see everybody could make it," Cassiopeia said as she drew near him. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, letting him escort her across the yard towards the garden that she had helped nurture during some of her downtime. Roses, hydrangeas and a variety of other blooms that he could never remember the names of poked out subtly in a sea of lush green. The woman was a natural gardener, and he couldn't help but wonder if every living thing she had touched during her lifetime had flourished the way both he and his garden had, while under her care.

"Dad, Mom's here," Jess called out, her voice following them. "So is Aunt Sally."

Dayton turned guiltily, the emotion short-lived as his deaf sister signed at him to go ahead, while Yvonne stared mutely at the group of people. His wife was impeccably dressed, her hair immaculate, but her vacuous expression and a frame that was far too thin reinforced that it was her caregivers at the home decking her out for her daytrip, not the woman he had once shared his life with.

"I know, sweetheart. I'll be there in a few minutes. I just need to talk to Cassiopeia for a moment."

Then Starbuck and Lu stepped in, passing Jess a drink and engaging Yvonne, getting a spark of interest from her that Dayton could never seem to manage. Then again, more than once Yvonne had at a distance mistaken Starbuck for a young Mark Dayton. Ryan had said it was something in the way the kid "swashed a buckle" and Porter, Dickins and Baker had all laughed in agreement, the joke apparently on Mark. Meanwhile, each time Yvonne gazed upon her husband, her crippled mind insisted that _her_ Mark Dayton was long dead; this come-back-from-the-dead-variety was an obvious impostor. Unfortunately, challenging any preconceptions that a lifetime had etched in her psyche was never a pretty scene.

"You're staying," Cassie said.

It was a statement, not a question. Her beautiful face showed nothing but a calm acceptance.

Dayton nodded, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. He kissed it tenderly.

"Nothing would make me happier than you saying that you'll stay with me, Cassiopeia. I want to wake up every morning with you beside me. I want to walk into my house at the end of every day, knowing you'll be there. I want to share my life, my home, my aspirations . . ."

Uproarious laughter abruptly filled the air, almost rudely. At the din, they turned towards those gathered around the barbeque, witness to a good-natured, free-spirited battle over the cooking utensils. Ryan was threatening Baker with a skewer loaded with mushrooms and Baker, in kind, was warding him off with squirt bottle of marinade.

Cassie smiled mischievously. "What about your barbeque?"

Dayton chuckled down at her. "Yes, even my barbeque." He clinked his bottle against her wine glass. "I love you, Cassiopeia, and I want you with me, always."

Cassie smiled softly, her gaze swinging back towards Jess, Sally, Yvonne, Starbuck and Lu. "You have a wonder family, Mark, and a beautiful home. I can understand why you can't bear to leave it behind."

He put a finger beneath her chin, redirecting her gaze, meeting her eyes.

"Yes, I do have a wonderful family, of which _you're_ very much a part. And this house is nothing more than a dusty old box of memories if you aren't here to share it with me. If it weren't for you, Cassiopeia, I'd be a bitter, old ex-astronaut, still looking for a nemesis around every corner. Hell's Bells, I might even be dead."

"Mark . . ."

"Yes?" he said expectantly.

Twirling the stem of her wine glass, she studied him through lowered lashes that veiled her thoughts, as the breeze softly blew her hair off her face. Between the bouquet of the garden, the warmth of the sunshine, and the radiant beauty of his ladylove, there was something so surreal about the moment that made him want to capture it in his memory forevermore.

"Mark, I'm staying with the Fleet."

"_What_?"

It was like getting kicked in the gut. In a universe where good battled evil, machines hunted men, and warriors fought day to day not knowing whether they'd survive, Cassiopeia had been an unwavering constant in his life. She'd never let her career or anything else, for that matter, stand in the way of their relationship, always willing to be there for him when he needed her. Not once in the last couple of months had she so much as hinted that she was doubting their relationship or that she was anything other than happy. Not once had she indicated that at some point in time they would part ways, abandoning a love that he'd been so sure would take them both into old age.

"Mark, the Fleet _needs_ me," she said quietly, her gaze again drifting over to Starbuck and Luana before she looked back at him. "You know as well as I do how short we are on competent medical officers. Sagan's sake, we had a _psychologist _assigned to us for our last mission."

Dayton winced as recent memories of Dr. Sala came back to him. The _Galactica_'s main computer had confused the shrink with his brother, a celebrated surgeon, and assigned him as the Chief Medical Officer for the _Endeavour_. Since then, Cassiopeia had been in charge of their Life Station, albeit in an unofficial capacity. Everyone knew she was studying to become a full-fledged MD, and trial by fire seemed to be a part of her training.

"But Cassi . . ."

"Mark, what about the next time Starbuck, Apollo, or one of the rest of our warriors gets shot up? Who's going to help? I couldn't live with the idea that someone on the _Endeavour_ might die just because of my selfishness." She hesitated a moment, taking a long look around the garden and then back up at the house. "Could _you_?" she finally asked quietly.

"But what about _us_?" he replied.

"I love you, Mark, I truly do. But I have to stop defining my life based on my relationships." She smiled sadly, her attention once again drawn back to Starbuck as he made his way through the group, laughing and making idle conversation, waiting for his commander to tell those gathered that this was goodbye. "Starbuck, Cain, you . . . each of you assumed that when you came back from winning your battle that I would be there, waiting for you." She smiled again, but this time it appeared forced. "And you were right." She swallowed, shaking her head. "But not anymore."

"Cassiopeia, I . . ."

She reached over, touching his arm, forestalling the argument that was going to burble out of him. "Please don't. For once in your life, Mark Dayton, just accept that you can't change this." She turned, clearing her throat loudly, her hand on his arm applying a gentle pressure, guiding him back to the party. "Everybody? Can I have your attention, please? Mark has something he needs to tell you."

It effectively concluded their conversation as heads turned their way. Cassiopiea actually took a step away from him, her body language telling him that this was it. He half expected her to wrap an arm protectively around herself, retreating into a familiar stance that he had seen time and time again when he had hurt her. Instead she nodded at him, appearing as confident and comfortable with her decision as he had ever seen her.

"Thank you, Cassiopeia," he said aloud, his voice surprisingly steady as he began to close the distance between him and his guests, leaving his lady behind in the garden. "I suppose all of us knew that this day would come . . ."

xxxxx

Obligation.

At the moment there was nothing that Baltar despised more than being beholden to someone, especially the likes of Adama's son. It reminded him of a basic duty to humanity that he had adopted in his new life, which at times like this opposed his basic duty to Anshargal and the Great Powers. All the same, he would never forget that Apollo had once inadvertently saved his miserable life, pulling him from the suffocating surf on Planet 'P', giving him an inopportune chance to make amends for his sins against the Colonial nation. After all, dead men weren't generally considered eligible for redemption.

"Baltar," Eirys whispered, her long blonde hair cascading over a slender shoulder as the power of the Oculus delivered Apollo's message as though the Colonial Warrior was standing beside them. "You dare not, Beloved."

Defying protocol, Baltar had persuaded her to use the Oculus thus. He'd needed to know the truth, but dared not find it out himself, lest he be consumed by its immortal power. Elevated being he might be, but Baltar well remembered his own defects of character and the lure of power. His wife, its Keeper, with her gentle, decent and peaceable nature, was immune to its dark lure.

Ah, Eirys. If he hadn't met Eirys on Morlais, Baltar would still be lingering in a Colonial brig, instead of being miraculously re-embodied as a Being of Light. There were times when he reasoned that the _only_ reason his spirit had made it to this dimension and not another less pleasant one was because the Great Powers had deemed that he would be _useful_ to them. Largely, since he had first awakened on an altar in a shimmering evanescent light, he had felt like a fraud. It was only a matter of time before it occurred to somebody else . . .

He smiled indulgently.

No one knew better than Baltar that while he had improved his standing amongst his people after Planet 'P' and certainly after Morlais, that he wasn't exactly what he once would have considered "angel material". Starbuck wasn't so far off when he'd proclaimed the Piscon to be his "guardian weevil". As much as Baltar could put together a somewhat convincing resume as to why he was here, instinctively he knew that it had more to do with circumstance than sainthood. Oh, he knew the correct words and had bumbled through his assignment on Earth adequately enough, inspiring Starbuck when necessary and berating and taunting him—his personal favourite approach, and perhaps reflective of Baltar's doubts as to why he was here—at every other opportunity.

"I haven't _done_ anything," Baltar told his wife, a wicked smile creeping over his features as he gave it a little more thought. John had counselled that they let the Elders dictate what would happen next; but John was a celestial flunky, not in a position of any authority. Baltar had never been a man who was content to sit still. He _made_ things happen, he didn't _wait_ for them to happen. "Although I can't rule it out entirely."

"We cannot interfere," Eirys reminded him, looking regrettably at the Oculus. The first time she had used it for her own designs, she had unintentionally unleashed Count Iblis on Morlais, ultimately resulting in the transformation of a race of Angylions into Odreds. It had taken a fair amount of cajoling on Baltar's part to convince her to do it again now, but her husband was nothing if not persuasive.

"We were content enough to 'interfere' when we thought we were championing humanoids against the Cylons, destroying Count Iblis' mechanical scourge both in Morlais and over Earth," Baltar reminded her. "Why should we sit idly by now awaiting Anshargal's pleasure?"

"Because we abide by Celestial Law."

"And submit," Baltar added, reminded of the words during Ama's humiliation at the will of Anshargal and the Great Powers.

Eirys smiled slightly, worry etched in her features. "Submission was never your forte, my husband."

"Only to you, my Eirys," Baltar replied with a smile, well aware the only reason he had his wife with him now was because Ama had used the Oculus to free his wife's Angylion soul, reuniting them. As the Keeper of the Oculus, apparently hers was a soul worth perpetuating. There were many unclear and enigmatic rules in this realm, and it was only somewhat recently that Baltar had began to realize that not all of them made a great deal of sense, nor did they follow any particular religious text that he was familiar with. "Has it ever occurred to you that it seems far too important to Anshargal that Ama submits to his will. Especially now that Count Iblis is defeated?"

"Perhaps it is _because _Iblis is gone. Ama retaining her powers is a reminder that Iblis was defiant until the end. Even in defeat, he would still not submit to Anshargal's authority, actually flouting it by redefining Celestial Law to rationalize his return of Ama's powers."

"Yes," Baltar replied, smiling at the memory. It was Iblis' finest moment, at least as far as Ama's friends were concerned. "But the fact remains that Iblis is gone. Anshargal's actions seem more based on pride and spite than on the advancement of goodness and light. The more time that passes since Iblis' exile, the more it seems to be so."

"Baltar!" Eirys hushed him, touching his hand in alarm as she looked about their mystical realm in concern.

He smiled. "I merely speak the truth, Dear One. Surely, there can be no penalty for speaking the truth _here_, of all places."

"Anshargal's will . . ."

"Yes, I know," Baltar interrupted her. "But there are greater energies at play in the universe than Anshargal and his bullies. We must stand ready, prepared to intervene on Ama's behalf."

"Anshargal will only intrude if Ama uses her powers."

"An inevitability," Baltar commented.

"Ama suspects this though," Eirys replied. "She may repress her instincts . . ."

"I suspect that Ama will repress those particular instincts when planets stop rotating and suns stop burning," Baltar replied. "We must be prepared to come to her aid. We owe her that, Eirys. We certainly owe her that."

"But we dare not use the Oculus for our own selfish desires again, Baltar," Eirys interrupted, almost writhing with guilt. "We _dare _not."

"Selfish desires." Baltar smiled unctuously, a familiar pleasure at defying the establishment creeping through his bones, filling places that had been long empty, as well as somewhat discontented and a little horrified at his completely unnatural transformation from Evil Genius to Being of Light. "Nothing could be further from my mind, Dearest. My concern lies only with Ama's best interests. I swear."

xxxxx

There had been a two-seater Adirondack style swing in Dayton's backyard for generations, and Mark couldn't help but wonder if Yvonne subconsciously still recalled that as she sat there, a bemused smile on her face, as she gently swung back and forth. Along the top beam, a climbing yellow rose bush had claimed the structure as its own, and he recalled fondly that the roses had been a favourite with all the Dayton women, from his great-grandmother all the way through the generations to his wife. He found himself drawn there, perhaps because he now knew that his relationship with Cassiopeia had no future, or perhaps from some selfish instinct to seek female comfort and refuge, in a safe nostalgic setting. Regardless, he shoved off from where Baker and Porter were deliberating about their own futures—Ryan and Dickins indubitably deciding to stay with Mark on Earth—and slowly wandered towards his wife, sipping on a cold beer as he came to a stop beside her. Idly, he picked a rose from the bush, setting down his empty beer bottle to carefully remove the thorns from the stem.

Yvonne didn't even acknowledge him, seemingly lost in her own little world as she rocked back and forth, her wizened hands folded in her lap, eyes staring into nothingness. Dayton couldn't help but think of that moment so many years ago when, sitting side by side, his arm around her, she'd told him she was expecting their first child. A year later he recalled taking a fussy Jessica out there, rocking her to sleep, the lulling motion a comfort to his precious baby.

"May I join you, Yvonne?" he asked his wife.

Startled, she looked up at him, seeming to deliberate for a moment. She looked him up and down, frowning, apparently not at all impressed with what she saw. It made him want to check himself over for defects.

"Suit yourself."

He smiled at that. There were moments when his wife's ingrained personality definitely reared itself. "Thank you."

All the same, he had to grab the wooden swing to slow its motion before he could settle himself back in the seat beside her. She seemed so tiny there next to him, like a fragile little bird fallen from its nest. Gradually, they began to swing again, an awkward silence falling between them.

"Come here often, Yvonne?" he asked, the words coming naturally. In the past he'd traditionally asked her the same thing as they sat there together, whether alone or with babies and toddlers in tow. By rote, she would always reply "not as often as I'd like".

"I . . . I don't know," she murmured instead, looking around at her surroundings, confusion written on her features. Then she glanced up at him almost irritably. "Who are you?"

Dayton let out a jagged breath, feeling warm tears prick his eyes as he looked at the rose he still held. The edges of the bloom grew diffuse as his eyes welled up against his control. "I'm your husband. I'm Mark."

She regarded him rather sceptically. "No, you're not. You're an old man."

"I'm that too," he replied grudgingly.

Restlessly, she leaned forward, as though she had abruptly decided to get up and end this discussion. Fortunately, she didn't do anything quickly, and Dayton hastily stopped the rocking motion of the swing, concerned for her safety. At the same time an unexpected and unseasonably cool breeze swirled up around them, making them both pause, Mark looking around in an uneasy anticipation. It reminded him of one of those weird Mother Nature moments in the movies that would herald the likes of Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee.

"Oh, go 'way with ya," said a voice behind him.

As Dayton started to turn, a pair of hands appeared from behind Yvonne, and an Empyrean talisman was suddenly placed around her neck. The newly made over Ama leaned forward, lightly embracing his skittish wife, murmuring soothing words into her ear that Dayton couldn't pick out. Suddenly, there was a rumble from the air above, almost like that of a jet passing overhead. Dayton briefly looked up at the clear sky before the necromancer drew his attention back. Her murmuring was almost hypnotic. Yvonne relaxed and sat back, now at ease.

"God forgive me, but we all knew this was inevitable. Besides, you need to know the truth before he goes, and only your wife can convince you of it. You don't have long, Mark-Dayton," Ama said before turning to go.

"How do you mean?" Dayton asked, turning to watch the Empyrean witch's retreat with a sudden sense of unease. "_Ama_?"

"You look pretty good for an old bugger," Yvonne suddenly said beside him. Unlike a few moments ago, her voice was strong. Clear. "What's your secret?"

Mouth agape, he gawked back at her. Was his wife actually back with him? "Yvonne?" he whispered.

She looked down at the rose in his hands. "Is that for me? It's been a long time since you gave me roses, Mark."

Shakily, he raised his hand, giving the flower to her. Tears welled in his eyes, one spilling down a cheek before another followed. Somehow Ama had used her powers to grant Yvonne lucidity. But the Empyrean wise woman had also warned him it was temporary.

"Cat got your tongue, Mark?" Yvonne asked, smiling gently at him, her eyes alert and alive. She smelled the rose, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head slightly. "So beautiful, but almost scentless. It never seemed right, somehow. I always thought the perfect rose should smell as beautiful as it looked." She smiled. "Your mother always said that I spent too much time looking for perfection, whether I was working, decorating or gardening. I wanted it all, I suppose. After all we built together, after our beautiful children, I guess I expected it."

"How . . .?"

"Look at our children, Mark," Yvonne continued, glancing over at Jess and Lauren who were chatting with Starbuck. All three faces were so animated as they joked together, his daughters obviously ganging up on his young friend, and Starbuck apparently loving every second of it. "I'm so proud of them. All of them."

And then it hit him.

"_All_ of them?"

"Yes, all of them." She smiled, an animation in her face and voice that he hadn't heard since she was young. "I knew it as soon as I saw him, Mark. You brought our boy back to me. I thought he was lost forever, but somehow you found him."

"But Yvonne, honey . . ."

"Don't you see, Mark, it was his body that died here on Earth, not his spirit. His spirit found a home elsewhere, thank God. And now he's home. It's truly a miracle, isn't it?" She looked over at Starbuck, lovingly. "He's a man now, and so much like his father that it's hard to believe . . ."

"Yvonne, that's _Starbuck_ . . ." he tried to explain.

She turned towards him, taking his hand, laughing softly. "_Starbuck_? No, no, don't be silly. I christened him _Mark_, after you. About forty-five years ago, I buried him and you together, at least in my mind. And now both of you are home. What a crazy, wonderful world we live in."

He shook his head slowly, realizing that he'd been mistaken. Obviously, Yvonne was babbling incoherently, although he'd never seen her quite like this before . . .

"Time is slipping away too quickly, Mark." She leaned towards him, her forehead touching his ever so slightly as her fingers stroked his hand. "If only I could have prepared for this moment, but I didn't know . . ." Her voice broke. "I couldn't have known I'd have this chance," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "It's almost cruel . . ."

"Yvonne . . ."

"I love you, Mark," she whispered adamantly. "I never lost faith in you . . . I never believed the things they told me you did. I knew you weren't a terrorist . . . that you didn't blow up the station and kill everyone. I defended you with every breath . . ."

"I didn't . . ." he choked out.

"I know that," she reassured him, raising a hand, touching his face tenderly. "But time hasn't been kind to me, Mark. I spend less and less time here with our family, and more time moving on . . ."

"Moving on?"

"It's not as bad as you think, my love," she soothed him, as his free hand gripped hers. "And if I couldn't pass between those realms, I wouldn't have recognized our son. Tell me, did you bring him home to me or was it the other way around? I must admit, that technicality evades me."

"Our son! I . . .uh . . ."

Overwhelmed, he couldn't help but do the math. In his existence, it had been thirty-one years and four months since he'd left Earth. With the variance in the Colonial calendar, Starbuck was around that age . . . but was it possible that Starbuck shared the same spirit as his miscarried son . . . some kind of doublewalker like Prince Llewelyn in Morlais? Could it be true? Was the spirit of his tiny baby boy really rekindled on the other side of the galaxy, embodied in a baby born to another man and woman on Caprica? It seemed so far fetched. Was it even possible? And was his wife's illness, her dementia, actually a . . . a miracle in disguise? Did her spirit now walk between worlds, while her physical being gradually wasted away on Earth, biding its time? In those seemingly vacuous moments, was she actually communing on a celestial level, free from the limitations of her body. A gift from God, completely unknown to those around her, and not some tortured form of damnation, after all?

"Poor bewildered Mark," she smiled, patting his hand. "You always want to know how things work. You need to spend less time making sense of things and more time _believing_. Give me a kiss, sweetheart. I must go now." She lifted the talisman, pulling the cord over her head, holding it between thumb and forefinger.

"No . . . _don't_ . . ." he choked out, unable to accept that the magical moment was already fading away. "Please stay! The Colonials . . . they can cure a lot of diseases. Maybe . . ."

"Shush, this isn't my choice, Mark, surely you realize that," she said, leaning across and kissing him tenderly, tears now spilling down her cheeks. When she spoke again, her voice was shaky, thick with emotion. "Take care of yourself. I release you from any obligation to me. Our time—precious though it was—is long over, Mark."

He groaned aloud in protest.

She put a finger to his lips, hushing him. "And take care of our children for me. All of them."

"I will," he managed, nodding. "I promise."

"Of course, you do. Only my Mark would cross the galaxy to find our lost son, and then come back to sit on a swing with me. I love you more than I can say, more than you would believe, more . . . more than even . . . chocolate." She grinned mischievously, her eyes sparkling.

"That's a lot," he replied, falling into the old pattern of a game they once played, inspired by a children's book. "I love you too, Yvonne," he said, a maelstrom of emotions rising up around him, sobs threatening to overcome him. "I'm so sorry . . ."

"Don't be. There's no going back . . .and at least now you know the truth. God bless, Mark."

Then the sudden lucidity in her clear blue eyes slowly retreated, fading to a dull and listless disinterest as her gaze settled on the talisman. She frowned, setting it aside between them, then looked back at the rose in her lap. Picking it up, she smelled it, wrinkling her nose in disappointment.

"It never seemed right," Yvonne murmured quietly, her hands fumbling for a moment as the flower dropped onto the ground. The loud noise of joyous laughter drew her attention and she looked over to where Starbuck was talking to Ryan. "Mark!" she called. "Come here, Mark. I need your help!" She pointed to the rose resting on the ground.

Starbuck looked up, at this point used to the old woman's confusion. He grinned good-naturedly, looking at Dayton uncertainly for a moment before strolling over.

"Go ahead," Dayton said hoarsely, wiping tears from his face. All this time, his wife hadn't confused Starbuck with him at all. Instead, she had recognized him as their son. As impossible as it appeared on the surface, down deep it just seemed _right_. Besides, it would go a long way to explaining why he'd instinctively been so hard on the younger man, verbally lambasting him for personal or professional decisions made that Dayton hadn't agree with at the time. However, if he ever told Starbuck, the kid would think he was as nutty as the proverbial fruitcake. The young man just didn't have the kind of faith that could make that mental leap to realize that perhaps biology only played a small part in the gift of life.

Starbuck leaned down, picking up the rose, bowing regally before handing it to Yvonne. "Your rosa, Milady." He favoured her with a rakish grin. "Although next to your beauty, it pales by comparison."

"I _smell _better too," Yvonne replied with a nod, smiling beatifically. She took the blossom from him and gripped his hand briefly before releasing it. "You're a good boy, Mark. Off you go now." Then, unexpectedly, she reached over and took Mark Dayton's hand.

"We, uh . . . we need to leave soon, Dayton," Starbuck told him.

"I know," Dayton replied, his voice close to breaking. He picked up the Empyrean talisman, passing it to his son and nodding towards Ama, its rightful owner. "Just give me a minute, kid, and I'll see you off. Okay?"

"Sure."

Dayton stroked his wife's hand tenderly as Starbuck headed back towards the others. Together, Mark and Yvonne began a gentle rocking motion as they sat there on the old family swing. "Do you come here often, Yvonne?" he asked her quietly, putting an arm around her.

"Not as often as I'd like," she replied, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Then we'll do it more often," he said, tightness in his chest as he realized that her short-term lucidity had facilitated her recognition of him through the haze of her dementia. Once again they had a bond. "Would you like that?"

"Suit yourself," she replied, then she snuggled a little closer. "Suit yourself."

xxxxx

In a dimension apart, a timeless serenity and tranquillity was being insidiously but subtly altered. The realm was a little less resplendent, the energy less divine. An exalted and inspirational bliss was evanescing with each passing moment, eroding the serenity, and tarnishing the infinite love that swelled within and around all that dwelled there. Almost undetectable to the immortals that watched over the universe, a malignant element slowly infected their domain in a design of sustainability. Unbeknownst to the Great Powers, a cosmic imbalance was correcting itself.

Count Iblis had been exiled, his evil influence finally vanquished, his own blood used as an instrument against him in a brilliant strategy orchestrated by Anshargal. It was a victorious end to a seemingly eternal crusade, and the prestige and deference bestowed upon the Elder was well deserved in the eyes of his peers. It gave him a measure of respect and reverence, setting him apart from the others. Meanwhile, Iblis' obstinate daughter's unwillingness to submit to Celestial dominion had seeded an exuding discontent, which furtively, almost imperceptibly, affected the once pure and incorruptible ever-watchful beings.

"Ama has broken Celestial Law once again, stepping in where she has no business treading, imparting information that the primitive humans have not the capacity to conceive. Iblis' spawn continues to defy us!" Anshargal seethed, his spiritual energy like a resplendent beacon of righteousness to all who heeded the Elder. "She must be taught her place!"

"But at the cost of yet more human lives, Anshargal?" Apsu replied, her life force exuding an eternal venerability.

"Humanity reseeds itself," one suggested.

"As it did once before," another inserted. "They have proven themselves to be resilient."

"Physical and spiritual regeneration. It is the natural order of the universe," a third agreed.

"Did we not warn them, Apsu?" Anshargal stated. "And did they not ignore our warning? Above all else, we must uphold Celestial Law."

"Above all else, we must uphold our _virtues_," Apsu corrected. "Do you not sense it? Do you not feel the shift in the balance? Behold what we are contemplating now that Iblis is vanquished. We are not permitted to directly interfere; Anshargal, only our messengers may interact with lesser beings under the strictest of guidelines. Remember what befell Earth before we created our Celestial Law. Remember _why_ we created Celestial Law. Do you presume to defy it, following in Count Iblis' rebellion? Would you replace him? Or wouldanother even _greater_ force have you replace the Evil One?"

A chill stillness stole over the Great Powers as Apsu's words reverberated through the realm.

"Are you suggesting that by finally triumphing over Count Iblis that we have disrupted the natural flow of the universe? That through our constant diligence and stewardship, we have done more harm than good?" Anshargal demanded.

"No. But in our eternal crusade to fight evil, we overlooked one very important axiom. Evil must exist in some form to inspire greatness and goodness. It is that simple, Anshargal. Goodness and light cannot exist in their purest form _without _evil. They would be meaningless."

"Perhaps it was presumed we couldn't best Count Iblis . . ." another suggested.

"Perhaps it was presumed that the natural order would go on in perpetuity . . ." said yet another.

"Perhaps it just_ is _as it _is_."

Those present reflected quietly for a long moment.

"What is to be done, Apsu?" Anshargal asked, subdued. "What lies next?"

"Before we deviate from our righteous path, abandoning the very virtues that united us and made us champions for light and truth, we must restore the balance. Otherwise little by little, evil will overpower truth and light."

"You're not suggesting we free Count Iblis?" one asked the Elder.

"Iblis' release is out of the question," Anshargal argued. "If we release him we undermine our authority."

"There may be another way," Apsu replied. "Summon the Keeper of the Oculus."


	68. Chapter Twenty Six: Part Three

Towering more than seventy metrons above the surface of Phobos, the dust-covered, tylinium-reinforced obelisk that Apollo and Dietra had spotted from their Hybrid fighter on their first pass over the moon was still stubbornly keeping its ancient secrets. Initially, after scanning the monolith, they had assumed it to be a place of ingress, but the airlocks and sensor arrays within had turned out to have more to do with constructing and protecting the mammoth structure than actually entering it from outside the space dock.

Millennia ago, a control centre at the base of the tower had once functioned by collecting and processing power generated from an unknown source deep within the moon, hundreds of metrons below them. The energy was then funnelled upwards, a conduit stretching towards the top of the obelisk to a star chamber, the condensed tylinium capstone at the apex putting Dorado in mind of the Celestial Dome on the _Galactica_, with that same feeling of vacuous openness. However, the difference here was that instead of looking around inside and gazing upon stark grey battlestar walls and antiquated utilitarian equipment, the chamber was a feast for the senses, covered with ancient Kobollian hieroglyphics, myriad features as yet unidentified, as well as having thousands of tiny crystals embedded in the walls. Once the accumulated space dust of countless centuries had been cleared off the transparent outer capstone, the starlight from above had been free to once again reflect off the crystalline surfaces, creating a mystical vision of sparkling light. It made the chamber seem almost sacred, and indeed, initially they had presumed this was a holy place.

However, holy places didn't generally require control centres and power sources, nor did they usually feature a translucent conduit running bottom to top, its length skewering the chamber at its centre, its surface delicately encased by a single sturdy golden thread, weaving its way artistically and endlessly in seemingly no particular pattern or purpose, other than to bemuse the admirer. Dorado couldn't help but wonder what it would look like when presumably some current of energy shot upward through the clear surface towards the outlet, the crystals refracting the radiance in a shimmering spectacle of powerful light.

To add to the puzzle, according to Dr. Mufti, the ancient hieroglyphs so far deciphered bespoke a connection between the Phobos space dock, the settlements on Mars, as well as the Earth colonies of what he deduced were once Atlantis and Lemuria. All data leaned towards the theory that ancient Kobollians had experimented in using quantum physics and esoteric science, both advanced far beyond the wildest fantasies of modern knowledge, to transport virtually anything or anyone from place to place. Had they actually crossed dimensions, exploring time and space continuums, as the Espridians once had? Had the squabbling over such technological advancements and power in any way contributed to the war that had erupted between the settlements, ultimately destroying them? And what was the source of the power that could generate enough energy to manipulate time and space to the extent that dimensions could be crossed?

"I can't help but wonder if the legendary Firestone of Atlantis had something to do with it," crackled a voice in reply over the suit radio.

Dorado looked up at Dr. Mufti, not realizing he'd actually spoken his last thoughts aloud. Beside him, Grae Ryan snorted loudly in apparent incredulity, the sound echoing over their frequency.

"_Cayce_? That ding-dong? You gotta be kidding me!" He snorted again. "Dingier than a wooden watch!"

Dorado couldn't help but smile at the disbelief in the WASA astronaut's tone. It was reminiscent of the early Dayton period, before necromancers, Great Powers and Empyrean talismans had become routine.

"Yes, of course, Cayce," Mufti replied, a faint smile of amusement belying his incredible patience.

"Who's Cayce?" Dorado asked.

"A long-dead American psychic," Mufti replied. "He became quite famous for his channelled readings back in the early to mid-twentieth century. Barstow Station's Commander Curtis actually mentioned one of Cayce's theories, the Halls of Records, when we first met your landing party on Mars. Since then I've studied his readings more thoroughly, in particular those related to Earth's legendary Atlantis. There are some interesting parallels to the stories we've heard from the Brothers of Eden about Kobollian history on Earth."

"Go on," Hummer encouraged him, looking up from where he had been studying his data pad, its images reflecting off his faceplate. The technician had been on Planet 'P' when they had cracked the code on another mysterious control centre, ultimately used to transport the NASA Space Shuttle_, Endeavour_, along with Hummer and Captain Dickins, back to Earth. The technician was almost certain that this ancient technology was also capable of opening a portal through time and space.

"Well, according to Cayce's readings, before its destruction, Atlantis was once a continent with an advanced technology whose refugees later peopled ancient Egypt as well as pre-Columbian America. You know of whom he's speaking, of course."

"The Kobollians," Hummer said.

"Yes, but further to that, Cayce described their society as being divided into two long-lived political factions—a 'good' faction called the 'Sons of the Law of One' and an 'evil' faction called the 'Sons of Belial'."

"You're suggesting that these clowns were the Brothers of Eden and the Anakim?" Grae asked.

"It would seem so," Mufti replied. "Now in Jewish and Christian Apocrypha, Belial is either one of the four crown princes of Hell or a demon. Sometimes it is loosely used as a name for the devil himself."

"Which again fits with the Anakim being influenced by Count Iblis," Dorado said. "What about the _Sons of the Law of One_?"

"Cayce said that they held to the belief of the one God as the creator of the universe and of mankind. In contrast, the Sons of Belial were said to worship themselves, interested only in accumulating wealth and power into the hands of a very few, the result being social stratification, with an elite group ruling over millions of slaves. According to the readings, a major source of turmoil was the desire of the Sons of Belial to exploit what he referred to as 'sub-humans' . . ."

"Early Earthmen . . ." Hummer interjected.

". . . and the movement to protect and evolve them by the Sons of the Law of One," Mufti continued over the repartee. "It finally led to war and the destruction of Atlantis."

"And presumably the settlements on Mars and Phobos, as well as Lemuria," Grae inserted with a nod. "Cayce's readings are also in line with the ancient Sumerian texts and the Anunnaki. It's the same plot with different characters."

"What's this Firestone you mentioned, Doctor?" Dorado asked.

"According to Cayce, it was a giant crystal on Atlantis that was reputed to be its main power source."

"A crystal?" Hummer asked, his gaze drawn to the small crystals embedded in the walls of the tower. He ran a gloved hand over them.

"Yes. I have read many interpretations, but as I have discussed with Hummer, of particular interest it was said that the Firestone could concentrate the energy emanating from the sun and other stars, storing it and then releasing it to open interdimensional portals that, in this case, linked Kobollian settlements."

"Like the Clavis?"

"Or the Oculus," Mufti replied. "Both of the orbs have surfaces that are intriguingly covered with these seemingly infinite metal threads, almost like a Celtic knot, one gold, and the other dull metallic in appearance." He took a step forward, his hand lightly touching the never-ending golden strand that adorned the energy conduit. "Yet, nobody seems to know what element is contained within them, only that they radiate a life force or energy all of their own. Also . . ."

"What?" Grae urged him.

"Atlantean crystals were also said to store information, as well as energy. They were used to send the human voice and images over long distances just like modern day television."

"And like Colonial data crystals," Hummer added. "That technology, or so they say, is 'as old as Kobol'."

Mufti nodded. "Some say that Atlantis was a highly technologically developed civilization that came to a sudden cataclysmic end due to the misuse of these powerful crystals."

"Do you think . . .?" Grae hesitated, looking upwards as the sun "rose" over the edge of Phobos.

"Yes, Major Ryan?" Mufti prompted him.

"Well—I feel like I just stepped into a comic book plot—but do you think that the giant Atlantean Firestone could be the source that the Oculus originated from?"

"Actually, I'm wondering if when they refer to the word 'giant' that it could be a slight misinterpretation. It could also mean 'powerful' or 'mighty'," Mufti mused aloud.

"You're wondering if the Firestone and the Oculus are one and the same?" Dorado asked. "After all, the Prophet, Daton, was its Keeper when the Kobollians first settled on Earth. The timing works."

"That might be it, Captain," Mufti conceded. "However, there were descriptions of the Atlantean Firestone that don't exactly support that theory. It was supposed to be immense."

"Mankind does have a propensity for exaggeration. The legend of the Firestone's size could be more myth than fact . . ." Ryan paused mid-thought, giving himself a visible shake before snorting aloud. "I don't believe I just said that."

Mufti chuckled. "I do. When you string together the many fibres of this web, it does have a way of entangling one within the possibilities."

"Go on, Doctor Mufti. You were saying about the crystal . . ." Hummer encouraged him.

"Ah, yes. It was located in a dome-like structure referred to as a powerhouse. The building had an upper portion that could roll back, exposing it to the stars, making the transfer of energy through the air more efficient."

"Much like this," Dorado said, nodding at the vista they were currently admiring in the Phobos Tower. Was it coincidental that the apex of this tower was also a threshold to the heavens? Or was it merely a Kobollian architectural feature that had continued to be passed down through the millennia, as evidenced by the Celestial Domes of yore?

"Yes, I should imagine it was very much like this."

"But wasn't the Keeper of the Oculus supposed to hide it away and keep it safe?" Hummer asked. "Not use it for his society's gain? Obviously, the Kobollians used its power to help establish a thriving civilization once the Thirteenth Tribe arrived."

"And isn't it said that only the most pure of heart can use the powers of the Oculus without fear of it turning them into what they most despise?" Dorado added. "I got the idea from Starbuck that even Ama fears its power over her."

"It's possible that whatever happened at that juncture might never be revealed to us," Mufti replied a little sadly. "Or maybe we have yet to discover the answers somewhere else, either here, on Mars, or even long hidden on Earth. After all, if Cayce was right and the ancient pyramid of Giza and the Sphinx were Halls of Records, then perhaps there are still more mysteries of history yet to be solved. In any event, according to the readings, the technology of the ancient Kobollian Firestone invariably found its way into military use. The Sons of Belial began experimenting with forbidden technologies from what was known as the 'nightside of life'. We've already learned of the war between the Kobollian factions, resulting in a catastrophe that intriguingly could coincide with the Biblical Deluge. So at least we know how it all ended," Mufti concluded.

"Soooo . . ." Dorado said, drawing out the word. "From extensive analyses, Hummer

has concluded that if we fire up the control centre at the base of the tower, that there's a fair chance this thing will come to life. The question is . . . would the data stored there show us a star chart for some kind of teleportation grid . . . or that this tower was used as some kind of weapon in the war between the Brothers of Eden and the Anakim?"

"A weapon that could fire on Earth from here?" Grae elucidated. "That's at the very _least_ some thirty-five million miles away!"

"That's not . . . possible._ Is_ it?" Mufti asked.

"The more I learn in life, the less I seem to know," Dorado replied philosophically. There was so much he'd been witness to that he'd never expected to see. And when he considered that for his people Earth was once a mere legend, bordering on the fantastical, it certainly gave a man pause before he dismissed the improbable prematurely.

"What if the weapon was used in conjunction with the star gate? Could you imagine the potential?" Hummer extrapolated. "Using a weapon something along the firepower of a mega-pulsar and then somehow targeting it through this . . . star gate."

"How could an enemy defend themselves against that? We could destroy Cylon and retake the Colonies," Dorado replied, his heart thumping with excitement at the prospect.

"Gentlemen, this is all conjecture at this point," Mufti reminded them.

"The doctor's right." Grae Ryan grinned rakishly. "I vote we fire it up and find out. After all, what have we got to lose?"

"One problem," Hummer admitted. "Like on Mars and Kobol before her, there seems to be a Kobollian Seal required for us to initiate the systems."

"Dorado?" Ryan cued him, knowing he carried Starbuck's Empyrean talisman.

"It's all just so damned convenient . . . almost too good to be true," Dorado said quietly, fingering the amulet that his old Academy friend had so fortuitously given him. He still remembered the moment when they had parted company in the _Endeavour_'s launch bay, the strike captain uncharacteristically uneasy about not being assigned to Phobos himself. Unexpectedly, Starbuck had slipped the talisman into Dorado's hand, closing his fingers over it, and telling him that where he was going he was bound to need it more than the strike captain. Had Starbuck instinctively known the part it would play? Had some of that infamous Empyrean prescience rubbed off on the brash Colonial Warrior? Or was Dorado rebreathing a little too much carbon dioxide and simply needed to check his life support?

"How do you mean?"

"Well, if we find out that this is some kind of Kobollian star gate, then the _Endeavour_ could return to the Fleet with news that they've not only saved Earth, but have also discovered the means to transport our refugees here potentially yahrens before anybody thought it possible."

The others nodded eagerly at the Colonial captain. He continued.

"And if it's a weapon targeting system that transcends space, we could actually conceive a plan whereby we could destroy Cylon and recover the colonies."

"Or maybe it won't work," Mufti inserted. "There is the Dirt Theory, after all."

"The Dirt Theory?" Grae asked incredulously, before looking back at the others. "I don't even want to _know_ what that is. Let's turn the bloody thing on and find out. What do you say, Dorado?"

"Well . . ."

xxxxx

"My time as Keeper of the Oculus is coming to an end," Eirys explained to her husband, after returning from her summons before the Elders. As usual, before her she carried the Oculus, cradling it safely against her bosom, like a new-born.

Baltar raised his eyebrows in surprise, not missing her bowed head or the way her shoulders drooped. "Yet you watch over it still," he replied. "That's . . . _interesting_."

"I don't know _why_ I thought my guardianship of it would be an eternal assignment, when I knew that others, both mortal and _im_mortal, had taken their turn," she said softly, a melancholy note in her tone that skewered the very soul of the former traitor of Mankind. So much of Eirys' identity had evolved through her role as Keeper. This would be a blow to even a woman as gentle, trusting and understanding as his wife.

"What possessed them, I wonder?" Baltar mused aloud, his gaze drawn to the Oculus.

"Well, I haven't taken very good care of it, have I?" she replied after a moment. "First I betrayed the secret trust, using it on Morlais, and thereby bringing the wrath of Count Iblis down upon the Angylion people. Then I used it _again_ to kidnap you, my love, as well as Starbuck, ultimately luring the White Witch to my side, desperate for her assistance. Then I lost it to Caradoc, precipitating a celestial battle between Ama and Count Iblis that ripped apart the planet Empyrean. I need not mention what _almost_ happened to the planet Earth and her people . . ."

"Still, it could have been worse . . ."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "How?"

"I was, after all, responsible for the death of billions," he defended his statement.

Eirys sighed softly, stepping into her husband's embrace. "It is difficult for me to think of you in that light."

"It's the burden I'll bear for all of eternity," he said, pulling her close, his hand stroking her silken tresses, flowing down her slender back. He could feel the warmth and bulk of the Oculus between them.

"But not alone, Baltar. Never alone."

"I alone am responsible."

"_Never_ alone!" she reiterated, softly yet insistently.

There was purity, innocence and a unshakeable faith in Eirys that Baltar had never witnessed in any other being. She had the power to inspire him, making him strive to try and become the man she actually believed him to be. "Yes, my love," he surrendered.

She looked at him searchingly, her eyes sweeping slowly over his features for a long moment. "They've asked me choose my successor, Baltar," Eirys said, stepping back from his embrace.

"They asked you to do _what_?" He frowned, shaking his head when he realized the connotations. "Ama? They're forcing the issue. They want you to choose Ama!" He gripped her arms, staring intently into her eyes. "It will destroy her. You must know that Eirys."

"It is _my _choice, Baltar. I will do my utmost to make it wisely."

xxxxx

A cool breeze struck Starbuck, and he automatically put an arm around Luana, pulling her to his side. In response, she wrapped her own around his waist and she tucked herself in close, the scent of her hair enveloping him briefly, before another surprisingly chill breeze swept the alluring wisp away.

"_Brrr_! Where did that come from?" Luana murmured as she popped a delicacy into his mouth, smiling up at him.

People on Earth had a knack for coming up with an endless array of tasty and tantalizing victuals that they could stick on a "cracker", which, as he had found out, was a generally dry and tasteless conveyance mechanism. He much preferred the "potato chip" or the "nacho", both much more flavourful. He shook his head at the bounty before them. Eating for pure pleasure, it was a luxury that only the elite in the Fleet had been afforded since the Destruction, and then only with a measure of caution, or so he liked to hope. Yeah, it was probably a good thing the _Endeavour_ was shipping out. After all, with the overabundance of delicious food, and the lack of opportunity for exercise, he was going to exceed the capacity of his uniform soon if things didn't change.

"Probably Canada," he replied around the delicious mouthful, grinning at Paddy's look of mock outrage. He wiped away a few crumbs, glancing at his chrono, well aware they should be heading out, but he was waiting to bid Dayton farewell.

"It's coming off Lake Michigan," Paddy replied, munching on a handful of savoury snacks, glancing up at a dark cloud rolling in from the east. "It cools down those lazy hazy crazy days of summer. But that . . _. that_ was downright icy."

Starbuck nodded his agreement, idly noting that a few metrons away, Ama had also turned to consider the approaching storm clouds. The Councilwoman shivered, rubbing her arms, before looking around in a concerned manner. Had something spooked Ama?

". . . maybe Costa Rica. I always liked Guanacaste," Ryan was saying. "I keep thinking about this little place in Brasilito that served the most amazing cheeseburgers and ice cold beer."

Starbuck tore his gaze away from the necromancer, returning his attention to the Earthman. "So you're staying, Ryan?"

Paddy grinned, reaching over and patting Starbuck's cheek in a paternal fashion. "Face it, kid, Mark would be lost without me. Forlorn, even."

Theirs was a friendship forged through surviving the horrors of thirty years of slavery. Dayton and Ryan were opposites in so many ways, but just like Starbuck and Apollo, their bond transcended any personal, philosophical or moral differences. It was difficult to imagine _any_ of the _Endeavour_ Space Shuttle's original crew parting ways with their charismatic commander. All the same, Baker and Porter were considering just that, torn between contributions they could make to the Covert Operations Ship versus those that could impact a radically transitioning Earth post the Cylon attack _and_ newfound Colonial alliance. After all, here on Earth they were considered to be senior citizens, while in the Fleet—with its different demographic and life expectancy—they were still vibrant men with meaningful contributions to be made.

"_Who_ would be lost?" Dayton's familiar timbre taunted from behind them. He situated himself between Ryan and Starbuck, casually draping an arm over each man's shoulder.

"He hates to admit weakness," Ryan whispered conspiratorially. "But he relies on me. Without my sage advice and constant companionship, he'd be a _mess_ . . . no, no that's not quite the right word." He paused dramatically, scrunching up his face in apparent concentration as he thought about it.

"What_is_ the right word?" Luana played along, reaching for another tidbit.

"You're feeding into this Canucklehead's devious plot," Dayton inserted playfully. "But then all Canuck plots are devious, stemming from that time they burned down our White House and raised the Union Jack over it. It must be all that Loyalist DNA." Dayton paused for a bite of food. "Or was it moose?"

"Well, I'm so glad you asked, me darlin' girl," Ryan ignored his friend, smiling at Luana and speaking with an affected lilt. "Without my influence he'd be an _asshole_. Yes, I believe, asshole is the word I be lookin' for."

Dayton raised his eyebrows before replying, "I love you too, Paddy . . . you miserable waste of skin."

Ryan grinned happily, batting his eyelashes at his old friend. "Give us a kiss."

"Lords, I hate it when he does that," Starbuck muttered uncomfortably, taking a step to the right, and putting some distance between himself and the effusive astronaut.

Approaching them slowly but purposefully from the swing were Jess and Lauren with their mother, their eyes trained on him with a female determination that both mystified and concerned him. What were they up to? And why did he suddenly feel like a tasty plump porcine being hunted by a pair of hungry feral felixes? Instinctively, he took a step backwards, only to have Dayton slip an arm around his shoulders once again. The old man was looking at him a little strangely, as though Starbuck had some of that sour cream and chive dip on the end of his nose, or something to that effect. Not far away, Ama was now watching them whimsically.

"What?" Starbuck asked.

"Kid, before you go we want to get a picture . . . just the five of us," Dayton said, his gaze meeting Starbuck's briefly, before flickering back to his family.

"Only if _I_ get a copy," Starbuck replied, almost surprised at his abrupt urge to be able to place that image among his keepsakes. By and large, he was a man who _lived_ life, not one who captured holoptics of it to look back on later. Most of his "mementos" and "keepsakes" lived in his memories, his kit back on the _Endeavour_ a meagre collection of basic necessities not even close to being reflective of the life he'd lived or the man he was.

"Of course," Dayton agreed, slapping him on the back and pushing him towards his wife and daughters.

It was surreal as he stood there with Dayton and his family posing for pictures in the backyard of that grand old house in residential Chicago. The atmosphere was casual, Jess and Lauren sharing some story while shovelling more victuals his way, poor sweet Yvonne fondly called him "Mark", and Dayton gathering them all together like some mother poulon. Then unexpectedly, Yvonne demanded that Luana join them, opening her arms to his surprised wife, and inviting her to join their "family portrait". For a poignant moment in time, the Caprican orphan with sketchy memories of his childhood and no _real_ home suddenly felt like he was truly surrounded by family. It made it all the more difficult to leave.

The skin prickled on his forearms as that cold wind blew in off Lake Michigan again. Ama stepped in front of him, startling him with her sudden appearance. She gripped him by the shirt, propelling herself right into his personal space, the way she usually did when she wanted to get his complete attention.

"It's time," she said. "We must go."

xxxxx

The _Endeavour_ and her crew were as prepared as they could be, should the Clavis suddenly self-initialize and transport them back through time and space for the mysterious purposes of the Beings of Light. Now all that was left for Colonel Apollo to do was to wait and see if the teams from Mars and Phobos, as well as those still on Earth, would rendezvous with the Base Ship on time.

According to the scanners, it appeared that the hastily amassed squadron of Hybrids would make it back, but Apollo was beginning to worry about Starbuck, Ama and the others. At this point he didn't even know whether or not Commander Dayton would be returning, however, he tended to agree with Starbuck's instinct that the Earthman would remain behind with his people, continuing to liaise between the Colonials and Earth even while the Fleet was yahrens away from finally arriving at their ultimate destination. Already he couldn't help but wonder who would get command of the Covert Operations Ship in Dayton's absence. Tigh was definitely in line, but Cain would jump at the chance to get back in the action, not content to be relegated to essentially escorting the Fleet along with the_Galactica_.

At one time, it would have been Apollo's dream assignment to be working under the Juggernaut. Now, he had to admit that the unconventional command model put in place when Dayton had taken command of the _Endeavour_, due to the Earthman's unfamiliarity with Colonial technology and military protocol, suited him. It gave him more responsibility and challenged him as a leader. Somehow he doubted that Cain would present him with many opportunities to take over command of the Base Ship in the Juggernaut's absence, nor would he be seeking the opinion of his subordinate officers in military matters, when customarily no one knew what Cain was _really_ planning except the Juggernaut himself.

Starbuck would certainly see it similarly. Apollo's friend had once volunteered to join Cain's crew in the face of almost certain death when the _Pegasus_ had been about to take on three Cylon Base Ships near Gamoray. However, Starbuck had grown both personally and professionally since then, and had Cain-like tendencies of his own in how he liked to perform as an officer, not rigidly adhering to "'the book", frequently adlibbing situations instead of finding ways to follow what any other officer would interpret as clear and concise orders from a superior.

Speaking of which . . .

"C'mon, Starbuck, don't be late," Apollo murmured, checking the readouts from the Clavis once again against the ship's chrono. Malus' initial projection was that they would have approximately another centar; however, the Clavis' rate of acceleration now seemed to be increasing every few centons, and Malus was once again recalculating the expected time of self-initializing.

At the top of the agenda when—or _if_—they did get back to the Fleet would be whether or not the Clavis should be scrapped. Twice on this assignment, it had endangered the crew and their mission. However, once again, Apollo could see Cain leaning towards wanting to evaluate the Espridian technology for himself, probably dismissing all that had happened in Earth's star system. Was it worth the inherent risks to have a technology that man had previously only dreamed of, unless Dorado was right and the Kobollians _had_ experimented with it before their ancient settlements on Earth and Mars had been destroyed millennia ago? Could it be that man simply wasn't _meant_to defy the limitations of time and space for his own purposes? Had the Beings of Light guided them towards finding the Espridian Clavis only to use it to manipulate them here and now? Or had it been part of some convoluted, tangled Iblis plot? Unfortunately, his hope that Baltar would appear on demand, or some other Being of Light, and enlighten him as to what was going on behind the scenes hadn't exactly worked out.

"Colonel, I have an amended estimation of when the Clavis will energize," Malus said, interrupting the Colonel's thoughts.

"Yes, Malus?"

"At the current rate of acceleration, the _Endeavour_ will energize in fifteen point six centons."

Apollo's mouth dropped open and he checked the scanner once again. "Malus, that doesn't leave enough time for either Starbuck _or_ the Hybrids to make it back."

"Correct, Colonel."

"Pierus, any word from Captain Starbuck or Commander Dayton?"

"Negative, Colonel. All attempts to reach them have been unsuccessful. It's almost as if something's blocking our signals. I can't explain it, sir."

"Solar flare activity?"

"None detected," said Malus. "Earth's sun is fairly quiescent at the moment and the planetary magnetic field also. There is nothing natural known to us that could be causing this interference, Colonel."

They had set up a series of communications satellites, replacing those the Cylons had destroyed, specifically so they could communicate with Dayton at any centar of the Earth day while he was planetside in Chicago. It had been seamless until now.

"Damn!" Apollo considered the limited options. "Boost transmitter to maximum power, Pierus. Try and punch through. In the meantime, Helm, set a course to intercept our squadron."

"But, Colonel," Sagaris said. "Captain Starbuck will never be able to catch up to us in the shuttle."

"Last time I looked he hadn't even launched yet, Sagaris. Besides, Starbuck at least has another way of getting back to us, while Giles and the others don't."

"Colonel? Sir?" Sagaris asked doubtfully.

"Don't forget about Ama," Apollo replied. "One thing that I know we can count on is that she won't let Starbuck down."

"You're sure about that, Sir?"

"Sure enough to risk losing him."

xxxxx

Life wasn't fair.

They raised you to believe that it was. They tried to teach you that every person you met would treat you with respect and dignity, and not any better or any worse than the person next to you. All you had to do to succeed at life and to live happily-ever-after was to do your best, to apply yourself and contribute to society in a positive manner. But he hadn't found his happily-ever-after yet, no matter how diligently he worked and how many volunteer hours he put in. And those around him treated him like an oddball when they paid him any mind at all, simply because he didn't have the ability to paste a carefree smile on his face and to make wisecracks for no apparent reason.

That had all been taken away from him when he was a child.

Children were cruel. However, at least they were honest, which was more than he could say for their adult counterparts. Adults lied consistently, trying to perpetuate the myth of fairness as being an intrinsic part of humanity. However, if fairness really existed, they wouldn't need a justice system. If fairness really existed, guilty men wouldn't be exonerated for murder and instead regaled as heroes. If fairness really existed, his beloved mother would still be with him.

The sound of throaty laughter assaulted him and he could feel a burning intensity envelop him. Bitterness burbled up from deep inside him, boiling over when he caught a flash of that despised devil-may-care grin, and then saw a carbon copy of it on younger faces. Happy faces. What gave them the right to be happy, when he couldn't be?

At least he had a sanctuary. Deep inside of him was a place he could retreat to. In the peaceful darkness he would find his equilibrium once again. He could get away from those grinning inanely all around him. And when he came out again there would be fairness.

xxxxx

As Dorado stood before the ancient Kobollian Control Centre on Phobos with the Empyrean talisman in hand, it occurred to him that once upon a time it would have only been elite members of society that would carry such an amulet. After all, of the original twelve Seals of Kobol, ten had been lost in the attack at Cimtar. Fleetingly, he wondered what had happened to Baltar's. Did the Cylon Imperious Leader now carry it as a prize of war? Was ole Bug Eyes aware of its potential power? Or had it simply been discarded as Colonial junk when Baltar had been picked up by the Cylons on the planet where he'd been "released" by Commander Adama, contingent on him revealing intelligence that had allowed Starbuck and Apollo to board and sabotage a Cylon Base Ship's scanners, blinding it to the _Galactica_'s approach during their attack?

He glanced down at the silvery talisman, the "eye" seemingly staring back at him. He wondered why the Thirteenth Tribe carried a different amulet from the other twelve. Was it a conscious departure from Kobollian tradition? Did they think they were breaking away from existing rituals and developing their own, however similar? They had seemed to wreak nothing but havoc, leaving mayhem, destruction and intrigue in their wake, unlike their more peaceful counterparts that had settled the Twelve Colonies. Were these Kobol's bad seeds? Is that why the Empyreans and several others had parted ways with them on the journey to Earth?

"Phobos to Dorado, come in, Dorado!" Grae Ryan's voice suddenly interrupted him as they stood in the lower portion of the Phobos monolith. "Did you zone out there, buddy?"

"C'mon, Captain," Hummer added behind him. "I'm going to die from the suspense!"

"I too am eager to see what happens," Dr. Mufti admitted, "after so many eons of silence."

"Okay, okay," Dorado conceded, raising the talisman and inserting it into the inlaid portion of the control panel. He took a step back, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. Glancing at the gloved hand that had been holding the talisman, he noticed a scorched outline of the amulet now replicated on fabric over the palm. He frowned. He wasn't aware that it could heat up . . .

Suddenly, the control panel began to come to life, the conduit before them—piercing the tower from bottom to top—lit up from a power source that they still hadn't pinpointed and didn't understand. A panel slid open noisily, a grating sound filling the chamber, as it revealed an ancient Kobollian keyboard for inputting data. Hummer used a short, gentle blast of compressed air to lightly dust off the keys, revealing hieroglyphics mirroring those he had discovered in other parts of the base. Those same hieroglyphics had been suspiciously similar to those found covering the ruins on Kobol.

"Okay, tell me your secrets," Hummer said, after a few moments scanning the instruments. Then, satisfied, he reached out, lightly touching a master switch, his skin prickling at the intensity of the energy suddenly surging through the age-old conduit. Across the board, screens came to life, displaying data and graphics that he had come across while working in the rest of the space dock. Some were familiar, obvious to any engineer, some took a few moments of study, but others completely eluded him. Meanwhile, the entire control centre lit up as a beam of energy shot upwards. Every man in the room was wondering what the upper chamber, reminiscent of the _Galactica_'s Celestial Dome, would look like, with a beam of energy illuminating it, the light reflecting off of thousands upon thousands of crystals embedded in the walls.

"Do you think it's safe to go check out the crystal room?" Ryan asked, looking upwards.

"Depends if you're comfortable with the idea of suddenly being thrust through space to some unknown destination if I accidentally get locked into an algorithm that I can't get out of," Hummer replied quietly, bringing up another series of screens. If he was reading it correctly, one of the screens was displaying a menu, with myriad options and subroutines, but he had virtually no idea what they were.

"Locked into an algorithm, eh? Sounds like marriage," Ryan joked. "So you think it's actually some kind of transporter?"

"The database shows some kind of log." Hummer touched a screen icon, and one tiny square expanded, filled with symbols and images. One, which itself expanded at a touch, showed what looked like a tactical display of the inner solar system. It had lines demarcated by numerals that criss-crossed the whole region centring on Mars.

"A log?" asked Ryan.

"Yes. Unless I'm way off, it contains a history of coordinates that were input thousands of yahren ago," Hummer replied, frowning as data disappeared off the screen and then flickered back to life a moment later. "As to their actual use . . ."

"Coordinates to where?" Dorado asked. "Earth?"

"Does it actually give coordinates for Atlantis?" Mufti asked excitedly.

Hummer glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the screen. "I'm still trying to figure out the data, Doctor. It looks like . . . it looks like they were using the plane of the ecliptic as a reference base for their coordinate system, so I should be able to figure this out. Date of reference on the Old Kobollian Calendar is . . ."

"Well, considering the ecliptic plane is constantly changing, that doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense." Ryan replied. "Whatever you get would be thousands of years out of date, wouldn't it?"

"Colonials _still_ use the ecliptic as a celestial reference system," Dorado replied, shielding his eyes with his glove from the growing intensity of the light in the room. "Granted, it does require a date of reference as well as an accurate ephemeris. . ."

"It's an out of date system," Ryan replied. "There's too much margin for error, especially when we factor in any solar system dynamics."

Hummer looked up briefly at the other man, an idea forming. "What do you use on Earth?"

"The International Celestial Reference Frame. It's more stable than the old ecliptic system. It uses declination, right ascension and distance from the barycentre, rather than the plane of the ecliptic."

"The barycentre being . . .?"

"The barycentre being the centre of the solar system," Ryan replied, now also shielding his eyes with his gloved hand. Even with the self-adjusting tint to protect against glare, it still was growing uncomfortably bright in there. "Summarily, we changed from a dynamical to a kinematic defining motion, from bright stars to extragalactic reference sources, from a precession of the equinox to a more stable fiducial point, and from a reference frame moving with time to a fixed reference frame independent of date."

"Makes sense," Dorado commented, as he began to feel a faint tremor beneath his feet. "So Earth has a more precise coordinate system, yet at this point have only sent a manned mission as far as Mars, while Colonials, both historically and currently, have crossed the universe, settling several new planets, admittedly bumbling along and calculating positions with more chance of error on the plane of ecliptic, yet apparently not getting lost all the same . . ."

Hummer chuckled, turning to grin at Ryan.

Behind his faceplate, Grae Ryan's face crinkled in mirth. "Point conceded. Of course, it wasn't _us_ who pissed off the Cylons."

"Don't you just love how Earthlings concede a point!" Dorado mentioned.

"_Earthmen_, not _Earthlings_. Okay, I'll shut up now." Ryan leaned forward, peering over Hummer's shoulder where figures were streaming across the screen, relative to input from the technician. A navigational screen superimposed itself, showing an image of continental land masses surrounding a massive body of water. It was clearly Earth, but just as clearly there were two additional landmasses. "Is that . . .?"

A light began flashing.

"Oh . . . _frack_," Hummer said, his fingers tentatively finding their way across the keyboard, data coming up on screen as the flashing light increased in frequency, a graph coming up indicating some kind of power signatures. Levels were rising into the red.

Fast.

"What?" Dorado asked.

"Remember when the Clavis self-initiated until it reached the point where it almost launched us across the universe?" Hummer asked.

"_Yeah_," Dorado replied measuredly.

"Well, turning this thing on seemed to have reinitiated the final inputted settings."

"Final?" asked Mufti. "Like a computer, going into hibernation mode?"

"Exactly. Whatever was put in last is still in here, and we woke it up! I think it's powering up to . . . uh . . . well . . ."

"Yes?" Dorado said more insistently.

"To blow something up."

"On Earth?" Ryan squeaked, looking at familiar charts now updating through sensitive scanners, and showing Earth's oceans and continents more traditionally. "You mean we're about to launch some kind of nuclear attack on Earth?"

"Didn't you ask what we had to lose by doing this?" Mufti commented, crossing his arms.

"I didn't hear you objecting at the time when we fired this baby up, Mufti!" Ryan snapped.

"Quiet! Both of you!" Dorado ordered them. "Hummer! What's going on? Are we about to attack Earth?"

"Well . . . not necessarily, Dorado," the technician replied, still accessing data.

"Come again?"

"If this thing was working right, then we'd be about to attack Earth," Hummer said evenly. On one screen, a set of coordinates, arranged in a circle, had focused on Earth. The planet was magnified, filling the targeting scope.

"But it's not working right?" Ryan clarified. "So we're okay?"

"Actually," Hummer sucked in a deep breath. "It can't strike Earth from here."

"But if the coordinates are set for Earth, what's . . .?" asked Ryan.

"According to this," Hummer pointed to a schematic, whereon a large . . _. something_, was flashing red. An alarm was sounding, and a voice from the speaker grill was repeating the same word over and over. "According to this, the main emitter array for the weapon is off-line; it hasn't initialized." He tried several controls. "Remember the Ravishol Pulsar on Arcta?"

"I wasn't with the Fleet then, but I remember hearing about it," said Dorado. "They blew up the energy exchange pump; the gun went up like a volcano."

"Exactly. This contraption is built along similar lines, although a Hades Hole of a lot more sophisticated. The main emitter diode bank is dead." He tried again, touching the icon for the bank. Nothing he tried seemed to have the slightest effect.

"Meaning?" asked Mufti, who knew next to nothing about physics and electrical matters.

"Meaning it's like plugging the barrel of one of your chemical slug-thrower firearms or a high-pressure hose. The energy can't get out, and will continue to build up until . . ."

"It bursts," said the old scholar.

"Exactly. What's going to happen here is that the power will keep building up in the capacitor bank until the whole damn thing reaches overload. There's no way to discharge it."

"Can you stop it?" asked three voices at once.

"If I had a few centars, then maybe."

"Bottom line, Hummer," said Dorado sharply.

"Bottom line," he said, looking at his commanding officer. "We don't have that long. We're about to blowourselves up."

xxxxx

Ama had a way of glaring at Starbuck impatiently that made a few centons seemingly stretch into centars. Strangely, the skin prickled at the back of his neck as he stepped out of an embrace with Jess Dayton only to be jerked into another final one with her father. In the front yard of the Chicago home, Dayton slapped him on the back, and then squeezed him tighter than an Aquarian Constrictor, holding him for a long moment. The commander's voice was coarse with emotion.

"Take care of yourself, kid. After all, I won't be around to do it for you."

Starbuck swallowed hard at the words, sensing a finality to them that didn't sit altogether well with him. The unwelcome heaviness in his chest was painful, and he was overcome with an intensity of emotion that he fought to temper. After all, goodbyes were practically a way of life with him, and relationships were largely transitory, he reminded himself. That's why it was important to keep the number of people around you as large as possible, so you were less impacted when you inevitably parted ways with someone you really cared. . .

"Starbuck!" Ama hissed at him from several metrons away. "Now!"

When he looked up, Baltar and Eirys had suddenly flanked the Councilwoman. The Beings of Light looked at him expectantly and almost regrettably as he spied them over Dayton's shoulder. Now what were _they_ doing there? Mason and his Anakim goons were exposed and defeated; what could they want now? And was he the only one who could see them besides the necromancer? He began to pull back from the old man's embrace, his instinct and scepticism putting him on guard.

It was already too late.

"Starb . . ." Dayton began.

The sound of the shots ricocheted through his stunned mind even as Dayton's body jerked in his arms. The old man clawed at Starbuck's tunic, his grey eyes wide with disbelief and pain, and his breath catching audibly before a loud groan was torn from his throat. Then his weight fell forward, almost knocking the younger man off balance.

"_NO_!" Starbuck screamed, supporting Dayton as he lowered him to the hard ground. His commander arched his back, his lips gasping for a breath as he maintained a death grip on Starbuck, their faces only centimetrons apart.

"S-son . . ."

Dayton coughed harshly and Starbuck blinked in reaction as he felt a warm wetness spray his face. The sanguineous spittle on the old man's lips told him how serious the situation was.

"_Cassie_!" Starbuck roared desperately, amid screams of horror and angry shouts of disbelief as Jess and Lauren dropped down to their knees beside their stricken father, seemingly paralyzed in horror, and shrieking insensibly.

Through a staggering haze of grief, Starbuck caught a glimpse of Bruce Johnson pointing an archaic pistol in their direction from the front door of the house. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, the vague and horrified realization entering his mind that the weapon—an old "German Luger" Dayton had called it—had come from the den of collectibles. Apparently, Johnson had entered the house and had liberated the old firearm, using one of Mark Dayton's beloved antiques to fulfil some twisted dream of "revenge" for the death of his mother on the International Space Station deca-yahrens before. Not an hour before, Johnson had been partaking of Dayton's hospitality, filling his face with barbequed ribs and drinking Milwaukee brew, seemingly one of those attending that the Earthman called friend. Bruce smiled thinly at the unfolding scene, and Starbuck tensed, suddenly overcome with an all-encompassing need to avenge his friend and mentor, despite the risk. He wasn't armed, but it didn't matter. He'd tear Johnson limb from limb with his bare hands, unless, of course, Paddy Ryan got there first. With a growl of malignant intent, Starbuck moved to rise, beginning to pry himself loose of Dayton's unceasing grip.

"_No_ . . ." Dayton gasped, his hold on Starbuck unrelenting. Blood leached through the Earthman's shirt at an alarming rate, as friends began tearing around the side of the house to behold the spectacle. "Don't be a . . . an idiot. . .Starb-b-b . . ."

"It's done," said Johnson, still holding the ancient sidearm. "Justice is done."

With a strange expression of calm acceptance, "Brucey" wedged the pistol under his jaw and fired again, a milli-centon later dropping to the porch lifelessly. With the looming threat so unbelievably eliminated, Starbuck slumped back down beside the old man, his shaky hand covering Dayton's as it continued to tear at his tunic.

The whole horrific scene had taken barely ten microns.

"You're going to be okay," Starbuck said, the words sounding hollow as he watched the life seep out of his friend. "Hold on, goddamn it, just hold on . . ."

"Dad!" Lauren said through a veil of tears, embracing her aunt, who was likewise crying. "Just keep breathing! Help's on the way!"

"Bastard!" hissed Jessica. "Damn that bastard to hell, he . . ."

Dayton grimaced, a wave of pain gripping him, as Cassiopeia fell to her knees beside them with a cry of dismay. Her face was stricken, her head shaking from side to side, her eyes filming over with tears. The consummate professional was gone, replaced by a crumbling female, sadly and conspicuously bereft of her biomonitor and med kit.

"Mark," she lamented, brushing the hair from his face. "_Mark_ . . ."

"Do something, Cass," Starbuck begged her, "_please_!"

Shakily, she pulled open Dayton's shirt, getting help to roll him over to expose the wound, burbling with bloody fluid. She swallowed hard and straightened her back, trying to regain her composure as she began to apply pressure with a wadded up piece of cloth, then allowed him to settle supine. An abrupt howl of anguish from a devastated Ryan filled the air, as the breathless Earthman arrived from the backyard, collapsing on his knees beside her.

"Now what'd you go and do that for, Cowpoke?" Ryan babbled incoherently, his voice strained as he took in the scene. "Getting yourself all shot up, and ruining a perfectly good party . . . puts me off my drink, it does . . ."

"Can't have that, Paddy," Dayton replied, blood staining even white teeth as he struggled for his next breath. He was growing paler with each passing moment. "_You_ going on the wagon? Why do I feel . . . like . . ." He coughed harshly, bloody frothy spittle forming on his lips.

"Like what, Mark?" Cassie asked him, her voice calm and reassuring, but her eyes wide with fear. She checked his pulse, and shook her head in silent protest. The bullet had obviously punctured a lung, but with the amount of blood loss, a major vessel also had to have been damaged.

"Like . . . like I'm . . . uh . . . hosting my own funeral," he rasped in return, looking at those gathered around him through a haze of pain. "I didn't prepare a eulogy . . ."

"You're not dying!" Ryan protested fearfully. "Do you hear me? You're _not _bloody dying!" His voice broke, even as he shook his fists impotently, and swore like a drunken sailor. "You _can't_ . . . !"

"I . . . think . . ." Dayton rasped. Paddy leaned close. "I think . . . I'd like a priest, P-Pad . . ."

"Yeah, Mark, of course," replied his old friend and favourite atheist. "You got it, old friend." Ryan turned, yelling over his shoulder, "Someone go get Father Nikokavouras! He lives six houses down! Look for the huge fountain and the statuary!"

"Ryan!" Dayton protested. "Father Nikokavouras . . . he's Eastern . . . Orthodox."

"Just how many priests do you think I know in your neighbourhood?" Paddy countered. "He's a good guy, Mark, with an endless supply of Retsina. Besides . . . if there's really a god, I'm sure he'll understand."

Dayton smiled slowly, rolling his eyes in disbelief. "Thank . . . thanks, old . . ." He coughed, his breath ragged. "Jess? Laur . . . Yvon . . ." Slowly, his eyelids flickered shut, and he descended into silence.

Raw fear gnawing at his gut, Starbuck sat back on his haunches, looking desperately over at the Empyrean wise-woman who had been a surrogate mother to him since he'd been adopted into her heart and her family. Could Ama intervene with some Empyrean magic, giving Dayton some advantage as he waited for emergency services to arrive? Starbuck's intense need to _do _something, which had driven him since childhood, was almost as strong as his desire to escape the emotional miasma buffeting him. Warriors were supposed to die heroically and abruptly, incinerated by laser fire or in hopeless planetside fire fights with murderous phalanxes of Centurions, not bleeding to death on the ground, choking on their own blood, their friends and family standing helplessly around them, gunned down by someone they'd known since childhood. When he'd shot himself, Bruce Johnson had even robbed Starbuck of the opportunity to redirect his labile emotions. Oh, how he ached to unleash the fury consuming him as he considered the unjustness of this atrocity. His hands shook and he felt like he was going to explode, as he finally cried plaintively, "_Ama_!"

The Empyrean's eyes darted from the wounded Dayton back to Baltar and she rubbed the back of her neck, an occasional sign of stress that she'd affected of late. She looked trapped, like a feral beast desperate to escape, as Baltar and Eirys spoke at her passionately, their miens and gesticulations filling Starbuck with a new concernment. His fear for Dayton aside, it made him suddenly suspect there was more going on here than met the eye.

Lu put her arms around him from behind, and he squeezed her hand briefly, welcoming her warm support. Idly, he wiped at the warm wetness trailing down his cheeks, unbidden. He forced himself to his feet, feeling his wife's hands release him as he lunged forward. His feet felt leaden as he narrowed the distance between Ama and himself, reluctantly preparing himself to tackle whatever new calamity was about to confront them.

Starbuck grabbed the necromancer by the shoulders, gently but forcibly turning her around to look at him. Uncharacteristically, she seemed to cower beneath his scrutiny, actually bowing her head to avoid his penetrating gaze. Amidst his anguish, he looked appraisingly at Baltar and Eirys, wondering what they had said to her. What machinations had those from the Ship of Lights put into play this time?

"What the frack's going on? Ama? Baltar?"

"We have a . . . a situation," Baltar said, typically evasive in his role of Being of Light.

Starbuck clenched his jaw, releasing Ama, feeling a profound urge to grab Baltar and pound the information out of him. "_Baltar_," he growled in warning.

"Starbuck, at this moment the Phobos space station is about to explode, the Clavis is poised to return the _Endeavour_ to the Fleet without the remainder of her crew, yourself included, and Commander Dayton is near to death," Eirys announced matter-of-factly, stepping in front of her husband as if protecting him from the tylium-hot fury of one mere mortal. "If Ama doesn't command the Oculus . . ." her summary trailed off, the unspoken words hanging between them like a taskforce of launching Base Ships.

Starbuck knew that Ama feared wielding the Oculus, certain it would seal her fate as Count Iblis' replacement as an immortal agent of evil. Its limitless power was its dark lure, and such omnipotent power had a way of corrupting all but the purest of individuals, of which Ama had never claimed to be. Hades Hole, Starbuck could live with being left behind on Earth, even if it meant he might never see an aging Chameleon ever again. But Phobos exploding, taking a contingent of both Colonials and Earthmen with it, and Dayton _dying_ . . . it was simply unacceptable, especially if there was something that he or anybody else could do about it.

"Please, Ama," Starbuck said again, reaching out for the necromancer and pulling her to him, his hands grasping her shoulders, perhaps a little too tightly. She grimaced. "If you can save them . . ." He swallowed hard and his chest hitched with renewed emotion, simmering deep inside him, threatening to boil over. Futilely, he tried to block out the heartrending sounds of those attending Dayton. In the distance he could hear the wail of a siren approaching. "I'll do anything you ask, Ama." He bargained with her, recalling another time he'd made an offer to the Beings of Light. "If it's a soul they're after, then I'll even trade places with him . . . _please_, Ama." He heard Lu's gasp of protest behind him, but the truth remained that Dayton had forged solid relations with the people of Earth that the rest of them could have never hoped to achieve. They needed his presence here to ensure there would be a world ready to welcome them when the Fleet arrived. "He means too much to his people . . . to _our_ people." His last rambling words were almost incomprehensible, his face wild with desperate frenzy.

"As do you, Dear Heart," Ama replied, her features softening as she reached up and stroked his face ever so gently.

Starbuck shook his head. "Warriors like me are a cubit a crew, Ama. We burn up all the time! Take me instead!"

She smiled up at him. "Mark-Dayton would deny that as loudly as the rest of those that cherish you, son of my heart. Know your true value, Starbuck, for one day your name will be recorded throughout the annals of human history."

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement at his words. "No, as the military leader that inspired and then led the first military strike against the Cylon home world in over seven hundred yahrens. You will be heralded as one of the Great Emancipators of the Twelve Worlds of Man."

Starbuck's jaw dropped open in utter shock. To date, he'd been more of a Constipator than an Emancipator.

"Think, boy! Why do you suppose you were spared time and time again to follow the path of the warrior? To be mentored by Adama and Mark-Dayton, to have the fellowship of men like Apollo, Boomer and Dorado, to have the moral guidance of your own personal necromancer?" He was silent a moment. "It was no mere chance that the Cylons attacked Umbra, just then, Child. You are appointed a great future, and your specific role in that evokes great fear in some quarters. You were spared, Starbuck, to fulfil a mighty destiny. One of such a magnitude that it would strike fear into a lesser man's heart."

"But . . . I'm . . ." He stopped, his heart struck by fear, for a moment images from the massacre at Umbra flashing across his mind. The noise, the screams, the stench of immolated bodies. "I'm nobody! I'm an ambrosa guzzling Viper jockey. I'm no . . ."

"You are a good man, Starbuck. One day you will be a _great_ one."

Meanwhile, a shout of alarm and the abrupt start of chest compressions on the former _Endeavour_ commander brought the situation to a head.

"Oh Lord! Ama, please help him if you can!" Starbuck begged her, plunged back into the crisis. He wanted to shake some sense into her, but a Colonial code of conduct prevented that. Barely. "What do I have to _do_?

"I suppose you just did it," she replied, easily twisting out of his grasp and reaching for the Oculus. She held it reverently for a moment, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath, raising it above her. "Through the powers of the infinite . . ."


	69. Epilogue

Epilogue

There weren't many places a guy could seek solace on an _Abaddon_-class Cylon Base Ship turned Colonial Covert Operations Ship; however, Starbuck had been over just about every cubic centimetron of the _Endeavour_, and he knew a few quiet haunts where he could sit in the silence, puffing in peace on a fumarello, no one to drop yet one more command problem on him or to wave at the wisps of smoke, turning up their noses in irritation at the inadequate air recirculation. The not yet operational Epsilon Bay was just such a place, utilized largely for its storage capacity, at least until the time came where they actually had enough Hybrid fighters to necessitate its use. Around him were spare parts and stores, including about thirty cases of Lagavulin Scotch that nobody but him knew about. He smiled to himself, considering opening a crate and indulging in a private snort of the good stuff. The trouble was that Dayton had told him it was fine liquor meant to be shared, and his current companion definitely wouldn't appreciate the subtle nuances of Scotch Whiskey at its best.

Starbuck sat down, propping himself up against the hatch, and stretching out his legs. A moment later, Shadow had stretched out beside him, the dark brown lop-eared daggit's head cocked to one side, his alert soulful eyes watching Starbuck's every move as the warrior pulled out his ignitor and went through the ritual of lighting a smoke. When the end of the fumarello glowed with life, Starbuck closed his eyes, puffing lightly on the Empyrean blend, savouring the aroma and flavour of a finely cured tobacco.

They had been back for over almost six sectons now and he still didn't know what had transpired on Earth. His last Earth memory was Ryan and Cassiopeia trying to revive a clinically dead Dayton, followed by Ama taking the Oculus from Eirys. What happened next was the usual celestially inspired Empyrean blur, but when Starbuck and Lu could once again think and form coherent sentences, they were back aboard the _Endeavour_, and furthermore, located about ten parsecs aft of the Colonial Fleet. The Covert Operations Ship had returned to its point of origin.

Not only had he and Luana made it back, but so had the pilots that had left Mars and Phobos, flying across the star system in a race against time as they tried to rendezvous with their base ship. Now, an optimist would presume that if Ama came through on those two points that they could rely on the fact that somewhere across the heavens Phobos was still in one piece and Mark Dayton was still very much alive. He fervently hoped it was so—Ryan instantly coming to mind, poised to lose not only his best friend but his son—but an underlying doubt seemed to do battle with Starbuck's cautious optimism on an on-going basis these days. Guilt over Ama's unknown fate, as well as Cassiopeia's obvious abandonment on a planet she'd decided against settling on, hadn't exactly helped him curb his cynicism. At times he couldn't shake the thought that Dayton was really dead, Phobos and her crew were destroyed, and Ama was now the new embodiment of evil, on a celestial level somehow balancing the "goodness and light" of the Beings of Light with her own particular Empyrean flavour of "badness and darkness"—which possibly translated as some unfortunate race of beings half way across the galaxy suddenly being transformed into gap-toothed, wild-haired, wide-bottomed tobacconists.

Starbuck's eyes flickered open as Shadow tensed, a quiet whine escaping him long before Starbuck heard the approaching footfalls. The daggit's tail started thumping a steady beat on the deck plate, indicating friend over foe. Starbuck glanced sheepishly down at the comm unit he'd purposely turned off to ensure a little privacy. Incredibly, his brain auto-engaged and he'd thought up three excuses for the breach of duty by the time he realized the intruder was merely Apollo.

"Over here!" Starbuck reluctantly announced.

"I know," Apollo replied, covering the meagre distance between them in short order. "I could smell the smoke."

"Right."

Dang it all if Apollo didn't head directly for Starbuck's stash of Scotch Whiskey, pausing only a moment before pushing aside a canvas tarpaulin and pulling out a bottle, a triumphant smile on his features. Without skipping a beat, he returned to his friend's side, sliding down the side of the hatch until his astrum hit the deck. A moment later, he pulled out the cork and took a swig of the Earth liquor, sighing in satisfaction, before handing the bottle to Starbuck.

"It went that well, huh?" Starbuck asked, taking the proffered bottle and sampling its depths.

"About the way we expected," Apollo conceded, reaching over and taking the Lagavulin back. He took another long drink, this time resting the bottle between his legs, apparently keeping it close at hand.

"So . . ." Starbuck sighed, leisurely puffing his fumarello. "Cain or Tigh?"

"Cain," Apollo replied, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Tigh will command the _Pegasus_." He paused a moment. "He deserves it and we both know it. It's overdue."

There had been the faint hope that Apollo would be promoted to commander of the _Endeavour_; however, the Council of Twelve hadn't been very impressed with the fact that the _Endeavour_ had defied orders and had made contact with Earth on what was supposed to be a "stealth" mission to destroy the _Ravager_. The fact that an alliance with Earth had been struck seemed secondary to their apparent misconduct. The subsequent military reprimand that Commander Dayton normally would have received for ignoring Adama and the Council of Twelve, instead rolled down the usual chain of command, falling squarely on the shoulders of the executive officer.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to celebrate the fact, buddy," Starbuck offered. "I suppose that means someone is line for promotion to colonel."

"Are you interested?"

"Hades, no," he scoffed. "I belong in a cockpit."

"You don't want to command your own ship?"

"I'd be happy to command my own social calendar." Starbuck grinned ruefully at Apollo's resulting laughter. Of late, both Sheba and Luana had been dragging them both from one function to another, apparently taking advantage of the "downtime" before another command shuffle. Chameleon had been factored into several of those engagements, and Starbuck had to admit it was good to be back in the old conman's company again. His father's easy going humour and tales of his "activities" were a welcome distraction. "But seriously, I command my own ship every time I launch, not to mention a couple squadrons."

Apollo smiled knowingly. "I remember when I felt the same way. Early days, buddy. Just wait."

"Suffering Lord Sagan, Apollo!" Starbuck exclaimed in mock horror. "Were those words of wisdom?"

"I'm just preparing you for Cain."

The strike captain chuckled, taking another drag of his fumarello. "I wager he qualifies on the Hybrid within a sectar. And he flies his first patrol right after that."

"Sucker's bet," returned his friend.

"Well, if the boot fits . . ."

"Then it wasn't made by the Colonial Service," Apollo retorted, waving at a tendril of smoke drifting his way. They sat for a few moments in companionable silence.

"Mal would be perfect for executive officer," Starbuck said.

"I don't think anybody's ready for a Cylon as an executive officer of a Colonial capital ship," Apollo replied. "But you're right. He would be a good choice."

"He'd be a great choice. _And_ it would get him off my back."

"Watch what you wish for, buddy, you might end up as his subordinate officer at some point."

Starbuck grimaced. "I didn't think of that. I guess that's why _you're_ the colonel."

Apollo glanced over at him and they grinned, before the colonel passed the bottle once again. Speaking of Malus, first on the command agenda for the _Endeavour_ would be whether or not to scrap the Clavis project. While cruising through time and space was a novel concept, thus far the crew of the _Endeavour_ seemed to spend less time in control of the Espridian device than other more evolved creatures in the universe. The concerns that Malus had put into his report before this mission had started had certainly been validated. It had put them at considerable risk more than once now. While an amazing feat of technology, they simply didn't have the necessary control over the Clavis. And while some officers—namely Cain and Starbuck—had voiced their opinion that the potential might be worth the risk, others—namely Adama and Apollo—had disagreed.

The strike captain nodded his thanks as he sipped on the liquor once again. "Just remember, in a few sectars the crews will rotate and we'll probably be on another ship anyhow."

"Yeah. In the meantime, I guess we make the most of it. I'll be curious to see how Cain functions outside of his usual element."

"Somehow I'm guessing he won't be asking for my invaluable opinion," Starbuck smirked.

"Hey, he _is_ Cain. He might surprise us," Apollo replied, ever practical.

"After all, he's made a career of it," Starbuck replied.

Apollo nodded, studying his friend closely for a long moment before asking, "How are you holding up?"

Starbuck frowned, sucking on his fumarello before blowing the smoke in the colonel's direction. "Did I ever explain to you that I don't like direct lines of questioning? They're bad for my bio-pulse rhythm."

Apollo chuckled. "I recall hearing that about you. The trouble is that I come from a _long line_ of direct questioners."

"Runs rampant in the family, huh?"

"Yep, pretty much," Apollo agreed, accepting the bottle from his friend. "I'm always around if you need to talk."

"Yeah, I noticed." He paused for a moment. "I noticed that you're helping yourself to my Scotch too."

"Privilege of command," Apollo informed him.

"And friendship," Starbuck replied with an amused sniff.

"I knew you'd see it my way." Apollo said, slowly stretching out his limbs before standing. "You'll see him again one day, Starbuck. A life force like that doesn't burn out easily."

Starbuck nodded, wanting to believe just that. "That sounds like something Ama would say." He turned up his face towards his friend, the question on the tip of his tongue difficult to get out for fear of the unwelcome answer.

"Spit it out."

"What about Ama?" Starbuck asked,

"Ama, huh? That's tougher. Much tougher," Apollo replied, holding up the bottle, his eyebrows raised in question.

Starbuck shook his head this time, letting out a long sigh and climbing to his feet. Shadow bolted up beside him, nuzzling his hand. Idly, he stroked the daggit's fur. "I can't see her taking Iblis' place, Apollo. Even if that's what the Ship of Lights wanted, I can't see her being any less the . . . woman she was before all this."

"But you did say she commanded the Oculus to get you and the others back aboard, didn't you?"

Starbuck dropped his chin, nodding. "Yeah," he replied dispirited. "And that was the last any of us heard from her."

At his side, Shadow bristled, and then barked wildly.

"Then I suppose I'm overdue . . ."

Starbuck jerked his head upright, his gaze following the sound of the necromancer's voice. For some reason he was expecting some kind of dramatic entrance befitting a necromancer that wielded the Oculus. Instead, he couldn't see her . . . "Ama?" he asked tentatively. Apollo was looking about expectantly, fortunately confirming the unexpected words were not some Scotch-inspired figment of his distilled imagination.

"Hello, Dear Heart," she replied, stepping around the stash of Scotch, a bottle in her hand, looking much as he'd seen her when they'd first met on the planet Empyrean. How the carefully coiffed hair had returned to her trademark wildness, he didn't know, but he also didn't care, as he rushed forward into her outstretched arms, picking her up with a cry of joy and whirling her around in a circle. Shadow jumped around excitedly beside them. Starbuck set Ama down gingerly, suddenly remembering all his doubts and anxieties. "Are you alright?"

"Quite," she agreed with a glitter in her grey eyes and a gapped-tooth smile that could send a small child into tearful hysterics. "Although, I can't say the same for the Lagavulin."

"Dayton?" Starbuck asked, watching her open the bottle and sniff it appreciatively. She took a sip.

"And Phobos?" Apollo inserted, reaching over and squeezing the necromancer's free hand warmly.

"Phobos is on its way to becoming a functional space dock once again. They have already stabilized its orbit, and begun sealing it up. Her crew are fine."

"What about Dayton, Ama?" Starbuck asked again, not liking that he had to. "Is he alive?"

She considered him a long painful moment, her features serene and strangely beautiful . . . when her mouth was closed. "I sense his life force in the universe, Starbuck. A light like his burns eternally."

Dread suffused him. Starbuck felt Apollo grip his shoulder, lending his support. "What the frack does that mean, Ama? I never was very good at riddles. Is he dead or not?"

"Easy, Bucko," Apollo said. Then he growled, "_Ama . . ._"

Ama sighed, taking a step forward and caressing Starbuck's cheek maternally. "Faith is an elusive thing, isn't it, Son of my Heart, and truth is but a perception of our relatively provincial reality." She placed a hand over his chest and he could feel the warmth of her fingertips upon his now-chill flesh. "The balance of the universe is a precarious thing, Starbuck, requiring a careful attendance and governance. And while the fragility of the flesh is a sorrowful fact, the endurance of the spirit is awe inspiring in its magical complexity. Take heart in that."

"Balance of the universe? Hades, where's my languatron? Ama, please! By all the Lords, I don't know what you're talking about," Starbuck admitted, shaking his head in frustration, as he captured her hand. "Can't you just speak plainly?"

"Or are you trying to mislead us?" Apollo dared to ask. "Do you still carry the Oculus, Ama? Are you truly its Keeper now? Have you inherited Iblis' status along with his blood?"

"Don't be daft, Apollo. Only the Keeper of the Oculus can bequeath its guardianship," Ama reminded them. "Although I certainly borrowed it one last time, Eirys actually bequeathed it to one _other_ than me, much to the dismay of the Elders."

"Who?" Apollo asked, even as the glaring alternative entered his horrified mind. "Oh Lords! _Baltar_?"

"Baltar?" Starbuck echoed. "What the frack is that? Diabolis the Next Generation?"

Ama raised her eyebrows. "It was a great sacrifice on Eirys' part, but in my mind an elegant solution, and a masterful conclusion." Ama replied. "After all, Baltar had all the credentials, and came highly recommended . . ."

"But he was a Being of Light," Starbuck protested, still absorbing that the one-time Betrayer of Humanity turned Guardian Angel was now the Evil One. Suddenly, it entered his mind that if Baltar bumbled his way through his current duties as he had his former ones, the universe might still be torn apart . . . this time by disbelief or laughter. "But he redeemed himself!"

"Baltar's redemption: it went against his nature, his very destiny. You of all people should have realized that, Starbuck. Didn't you call him your Guardian Weevil?" Ama replied. "I'm sure he'll be more content now. He can get himself a new pedestal, towering above the rest of the peons, while I try to figure out how to recapture the Oculus before he learns what to do with it."

"But what about Eirys?" Apollo asked, his natural compassion for the Angylion apparent.

"She remains with the Ship of Lights, Baltar's natural nemesis now." Ama shook her head. "It's regrettable, I agree."

"What about Cassie?" Starbuck asked. "She told Dayton she was going to stay with the Fleet. Why didn't you bring her back too?"

"She could have left Mark-Dayton knowing he was fine, but it was a different matter when she knew he was dying beneath her well-meaning fingertips, Starbuck," Ama explained. "In that moment when we needed to go, she made up her mind to remain and do her best to save him. She's very gifted."

Starbuck wrinkled his brow. "Then he's okay? Cassie saved him?" Suddenly, it all made sense. Cassie _had_ to remain behind to help them save Dayton. That was it!

Ama jerked her head upward, suddenly frowning irritably. She took a long deep breath, and then leaned forward, briefly kissing Starbuck, stroking his cheek, then tilting her head forward until their foreheads met. He closed his eyes. A familiar warmth that he often associated with Ama suffused him. It was immediately comforting and he never came out of it with a hangover. If only he could bottle it and sell it in the Fleet . . .

"Starbuck, I almost forgot to tell you," she whispered. The sound seemed to flow through him and all around him.

"Yes?" he asked a little dreamily.

"Listen closely now. You see, over thirty Earth years ago the spirit of Mark and Yvonne Dayton's unborn son crossed the galaxy, giving life to another child in the Colonies," she whispered. "They truly believed you to be their son."

"Their son?" It seemed so surreal. "But Chameleon . . ."

"Yes. Chameleon is your father."

"But . . . you just said that . . ." He opened his eyes, feeling the blissful contentment retreat. "I . . . I'm confused."

"It is complicated, Son of my Heart, but I can tell you this. You carry the DNA of Chameleon and Gabrielle, of this I'm certain. But, at some point, as sadly often happens, the babe within her womb died. She was still carrying it, not yet aware of what had transpired, when another child, half a galaxy away, this time by malice and cruelty, also succumbed before birth." She took a deep breath, and looked into Starbuck's astonished face. "Through a wisdom and grace far beyond the understanding of most mortals, the spirit of that child crossed the gulf of space, to fill the unborn son of Chameleon."

"Holy fracking . . ."

"Lords . . ." murmured Apollo.

"Yes. You are that son, Starbuck. Conceived on one side of the galaxy, and born on the other to fulfil a destiny for both worlds. It was Yvonne, with her special kind of spiritual evolution—or dementia, as the Earthmen call it—who recognized you. Son, it was your genealogical bond with Mark-Dayton that prepared the way to ultimately unite the tribes, negating a separation that had lasted millennia."

"But . . ." Starbuck wasn't certain what to say. Had it been some deep-rooted instinct that made him trust Mark Dayton so long ago when he'd been close to exposing him for almost destroying the _Galactica_ near the pirate base? Conversely, there were all those times that Dayton had harangued him for various perceived indiscretions, real or not, but had stuck his neck out to come to his aid whenever Starbuck was in trouble. Had it all been _fate_?

"Close your mouth, Starbuck, before something flies in there," said Ama.

"You . . . you have permission to tell me this?"

"Who said I asked?" Ama smiled, her need of modern dentistry once more in evidence. "I have a message for you, son."

He nodded slowly.

Her grey eyes misted over ever so slightly, softening and suddenly reminding him of another familiar set of beloved grey eyes, last seen looking desperately at him six sectons before. Shadow's low unsettled growl faded into the background as soon as it had begun, getting further and further away. It was like being transported back in time and space, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was Mark Dayton standing there before him. But he _couldn't_ close his eyes. He couldn't break the spell that Ama held over him. The luring depths of charcoal drew him in further, until he could almost smell that awful cologne that Dayton had taken to wearing in his last sectons on Earth. _Old and Spicey_ . . .

"I'll be watching over you always, my son. As I do my daughters. You make me proud, kid. I love you."

Starbuck's eyes misted over and he held his breath as a single tear trickled down his cheek. It still seemed too surreal to grasp. Rationally, it didn't make much sense; however, he tended to think of things in simple biological terms, when he thought about them at all. Irrationally, on an emotional level it _felt_ right. He closed his eyes, feeling like a crystalline orb about to shatter into a million pieces. Wait a centon . . . had the voice belonged to Dayton or Ama? Either could utter the words meaningfully. Why couldn't he reason beyond any doubt as to whether or not the Old Man was dead or alive.

_Because you don't want to, Idiot! You're afraid of the truth!_

"Buddy?"

Apollo's voice pulled him back to the harsh reality of the steely decks around him. Ama had stepped back, regarding Starbuck with some concern, even as she once again looked upward, as though getting direction from another dimension, like John once had.

"Just tell me the truth, Ama," Starbuck begged her.

She smiled at him kindly, holding her hands upward, as though trying to ensure she wasn't hiding anything. "I _did_ tell you, Starbuck. Once again, I can only reassure you that his spirit lives on."

"But . . ."

"I must go for now, Starbuck. Give my god-daughters and Chameleon my love. Tell Lu I will be here for her when the time comes."

"The time . . . _what_ time?" he asked, once again bewildered as she simply disappeared before his eyes. He reached over, gripping Apollo's arm, finding his solid, unwavering presence comforting in the light of the last few centons. "_What_ time?"

"About twenty past the centar, buddy," Apollo replied, gripping Starbuck by the shoulder, and steering him back towards the hatch _and_ the Scotch.

Surprisingly, the hatch opened. Lu's head popped through it, followed by the rest of her. Shadow barked happily, wagging his tail at her appearance. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you!" she said, her smile lightening his heavy heart as she sprang forward into his arms. Typically, the daggit got up on his hind feet, forepaws on human legs, and barked joyously.

Despite the ups and downs of their relatively short marriage, lately things had been good between them. Really good. The events on Earth had had a way of putting things into perspective, until a couple realized that they'd better enjoy what they had, instead of regretting what they didn't. Shadow had helped, giving them both a necessary distraction aside from their troubles.

"There's something I need to tell you!" Lu enthused, her smile contagious as she grabbed Starbuck's hands, entwining her fingers in his.

"Should I leave you two alone?" Apollo asked.

Lu laughed joyously, the sound a tonic for the soul. "Good luck with that," she giggled mysteriously, before taking Starbuck's hand and lowering it to her belly.

Now, women only placed their hands on their bellies for two pertinent reasons that Starbuck was aware of. He had a sneaking suspicion she hadn't searched him out to share her monthly "bloated like a Base Ship" status with him, especially with that ecstatic smile on her features. That left one other option that even the best Colonial physicians had told them just wasn't possible after Lu's exposure to certain chemicals on Planet 'P'.

"Besides, Apollo," Lu continued, "I want the whole Fleet to know, and you can be the first. Well, after Starbuck, that is." She pressed her hand over Starbuck's, her radiance exquisite as they stood there smiling at each other, husband and wife.

"Lu?" he asked tentatively. He didn't dare believe . . . "Are you . . .?"

"_Innamorato_, it's an honest to goodness miracle!"

"It is, _Innamorata_," Starbuck replied with a breath of disbelief, pulling her into his arms, lifting her off her feet, his eyes flooding this time with tears of happiness. It hadn't been long after his return to the Fleet that he'd found comfort in Luana's arms. Had it been that night when Dayton had lost his battle for life, even Cassiopeia's medical skill unable to sustain him any longer? Suddenly, what Ama had said made complete sense. _His spirit lives on._ "He'll be a strong and healthy boy, the pride of his father and the delight of his mother."

"You think so, huh? If he takes after you, then more likely he'll be Hades at full turbos!" She laughed aloud, as he set her back down on her feet. Then she smiled impishly. "You know . . . it could be a girl."

"Maybe," he grinned mischievously, putting an arm around her and pulling her close. "But I'm willing to bet otherwise."

xxxxx

Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the Battlestars _Galactica_ and _Pegasus_, along with a salvaged and modified Cylon Base Ship, renamed _Endeavour_, lead a ragtag fugitive fleet on a lonely quest . . . a shining planet known as Earth.

The End

Thanks to Senmut, Beta Reader Extraordinaire, for his support, inspiration and constant nudges that kept me going.


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